Letters
by anja-chan
Summary: Mail becomes Matt, a member of the fourth floor at Wammy's House. As he grows accustomed to his new life, Matt is drawn down an ever-darkening path of the mystery that now surrounds Letters. Fits into canon.
1. Chapter 1

_Alrighty! So this is the debut of my dark, evil plottin-- ahem I mean, writing. So, let me know what you think, etc. in the form of a review. (I really don't care if it's 'I liked it' or 'I hated it,' but if you want to leave something meaningful, say WHY.) Please enjoy it!_

* * *

Letters

1

**--M--**

**June 16, 2007**

Matt sighed.

It was one of those heavy, drawn-out sighs accompanied by the smoky vapors of his cigarette. He stared contemplatively at the ceiling, his debooted feet hanging off the edge of his mattress and his hands ungloved, as if he no longer approved of the black leather of his normal outfit. His auburn hair would have been in his eyes, if not for the biker goggles that tugged his bangs upwards every time he uncovered his eyes. It was dark and quiet in his room and he found himself missing the small lights from the various game systems on pause. Damn, he hadn't been to the Wammy's House for over a year, and yet he still felt uneasy without the little bits of life that he had gotten accustomed to there. A muffled pair of footsteps passed by his hotel door and he sank deeper into the mattress and his despair.

Tomorrow, he hoped to meet with Mello. That in and of itself forced a convoluted mix of feelings to rise into his throat. It had been years since they had last seen each other, and Mello had made a rather hasty departure even then. Matt had been trying to first find him, and then contact him, but Mello had done a neat job of disappearing off the face of the earth. Until, of course, Near had decided to let a few words slip. Then Matt felt like an idiot for not checking the mafia sooner. Although, considering he'd been in a loose kind of contact with the crippled boy for nearly a year, he figured it wouldn't have hurt either of them much if he had given out Mello's whereabouts sooner.

Matt took another pull from his cigarette, letting the drug calm him. He had hacked his way into the LA base—no easy feat—and left a private message for Mello. Matt had easily recognized where the blond would have placed himself within the organization and by his screen name: a single gothic M. Not entirely original, Matt had thought, but he knew his former _something_ had his reasons… Matt suddenly felt a little lost in trying to describe what Mello was to him. Former, yes, as they certainly had nothing to do with each other now, but… what exactly had they been? Friends? Colleagues? Rivals? Lovers? Enemies? Or had they simply been children… no, Matt knew that if anything, those few special students at Wammy's had never been children.

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, Matt realized there wasn't much point in trying to figure it out right now. It would all change tomorrow anyway. Today was the day he would always remember for a different event from his past. Matt was only that much more depressed that he couldn't be in England for it, setting alternating black and white candles out on the railings, watching the light flicker on the black latticework over the white buildings. He would even take his goggles off to watch them after the sun went down behind his back, ignoring the strangers who gave him even stranger looks before hurrying on their way. Yes, he'd rather be back where it had all started.

Although, he certainly could hold his ninth annual silent vigil wherever the hell he pleased. It wasn't as if anyone had ever tried to stop him. And he'd be damned if a cheap motel in Los Angeles wasn't the proper place to remember how his family had died.

**--M--**

"_Here's the day you hoped would never come,_

_don't feed me violence,_

_just run with me_

_through rows of speeding cars."_

**June 16, 1998**

His father, Adair Jeevas, was an artist. He saw life in its infinite detail and painted it, turning everyday objects into masterpieces. Every year since he had met Cara, he had painted her portrait and exclaimed how much more beautiful she had become with the passing year. Mail had always loved hearing the story about the third year that he had finished painting her portrait: Adair had asked Cara to marry him, painting a golden ring onto her finger when she accepted. In kindergarten, Mail had always used the finger paints to adorn his own fingers with rings, but naturally he had gotten the greens, blues, yellows, and reds all over his dark glasses instead. Now that he was in third grade, Mail knew that no one would ever propose to him and that rings were, for the most part, reserved for women to wear on their fingers, not men.

But that didn't stop him from liking the story and understanding as only an 8-year-old genius could that his parents loved each other, him, and his little sister. And that just as importantly, he loved them all back… even when Blair Rose had been two and cried all the time. Having no friends at school, Mail had always depended on his family for social interaction and had developed a habit of not caring about public opinion, especially when it pertained to the way his peers perceived him. He knew it didn't make him any more likable, but had given up hope years ago that he would be anything but unpopular.

So Mail smiled, holding his mum's hand tightly, even though he knew his way all around Chester's tourist spot, the Chester Rows and that a normal 8-year-old would be embarrassed to hold his mother's hand. The traditional architecture of the two-tiered galleria of shops was contrasting black on white, except for whatever signs the shop-owners had put up or the bright colors of tourists in summer wear and sun-burned shoulders. His father owned the shop second from the corner and sold his paintings, most of which depicted the famous landmark shopping center, but there were still a great many other English scenes, found to be quite popular with foreign tourists.

Being summer, Mail found that his dark glasses kept sliding down the sweat on his nose, causing his eyes to water. Instead of wasting his time pushing them back up every few seconds, Mail simply decided to shut his eyes and trust in the sweaty palm guiding him. Even if he let go, he was pretty confident he could find his way to the store with his eyes closed. Sunny days and being outside in the heat were somewhat like the bane of his young existence.

Of course it was only a few seconds later that he tripped over a curb. He didn't fall, but only because his mum yanked aloft his arm, his sixty pound body following its erratic appendage. Mail heard more than felt his glasses slip off his nose to clatter to the brick road where his face might have gone if his mother hadn't had such quick natural reactions.

"Are you alright, Mail?" Cara asked gently, releasing her son's hand to place it on his tiny shoulder. Mail could feel her shadow crouch down in front of him, his eyes still closed.

"Yeah," he mumbled, peeking through one eye now that he was decently sure the she was blocking the sun.

"Oh, Mail, are your eyes hurting again?" She frowned and pulled a tissue from her pocket to wipe at his face and the water that leaked from his eyes. Mail hadn't noticed that his eyes were watering. "I can carry you if you don't want to walk, love. You can shut your eyes that way."

Mail should his head emphatically as Blair Rose interrupted from her seat in a child-carrier-backpack. "Buh mum carries Bwair Rose!"

"You don't need to carry me; I'm old enough to walk by myself," Mail replied succinctly. He closed his eyes to point his head in the direction of his little sister, silhouetted by rays of sunlight behind her. "See Blair? I can walk on my own because I'm independent."

"Waz induhpendant?" Blair Rose asked, the last syllable rising far more than necessary. Mail cracked an eye open to see the quizzical expression on the little blonde's face. Blair Rose blinked back at him like she had recently begun doing when she expected an explanation from her older brother. Mail had secretly hoped that she would be even smarter than him so he could have someone to talk to on an equal level, and so had begun teaching her everything he could. However, he often heard his parents whispering a discussion in the kitchen about her development in terms of the rather ordinary and expected for children her age. They were always happy to talk about how Blair Rose was at the correct stage, which made Mail a little jealous and somewhat lonely. Still, he hoped that if he tried hard enough, Blair Rose would be just as smart as he was and so never stopped trying to teach her.

"Independent means I can take care of myself."

"Alright, alright," Cara said, placating her children, but Mail caught her slight smile, and wondered if his mum was secretly happy that he was trying to teach Blair Rose not to be so clingy. He had noticed that it was exceedingly difficult for his mother to resist acquiescing to her children's demands for attention, time, and money. Mail himself had taken advantage of this fact by urging her to buy him a Nintendo 64 and most of the ensuing games he wanted. He knew that the Game Boy Color would make its way to Europe over the course of the next year, and had already begun dropping hints that it would be an appropriate present for his birthday or Christmas, depending on which was closer to the release date. Cara picked up Mail's fallen glasses, and brushed them off before holding the plastic lenses out to him. "Now, Mail, if the light's bothering you again, you can go ahead and say so. We're almost to Da's shop, so once we're there, he can turn off the lights for you if just being inside isn't enough. How's that, love?"

"It's fine, mum. Don't worry about it," Mail said, embarrassed that his mother was fussing over him still, especially after he had just told Blair Rose the meaning of independent. His parents, teachers, and classmates had always made a big deal over his hypersensitive eyes, and whether it was to try to make special accommodations for him or to make fun of him, he always hated the extra attention paid to his 'disability.' He opened his other eye, squinting badly.

His mother handed him the awkwardly large glasses and he replaced them on his face, hating them as much as he needed them. He got a new pair for every holiday or whenever the previous one broke or was broken, but they always obscured about half of his face, which was mostly what made it difficult to get friends. It might not have been too bad, but he had never learned to connect well with anyone else his age from the very start. Having never gotten down the art of acting his age, looking like a freak had never helped. Mail, with his strange disability and his even stranger intelligence, had learned on the first day of kindergarten that he was vastly different from the other kids. And although it had been hard to accept and he had cried to his parents, gone to four year's worth of parent-teacher conferences, refused to wear his sunglasses and dumbed down his speech for a week, none of it had changed how the other children teased him. He had no choice but to realize that until _they_ grew up, he would just have to live with being separate. It still hurt sometimes to watch the other children playing some kind of silly game during recess and never including him, unless it was for some kind of taunting. To the other students he was either the ever popular "four-eyes" or "teacher's pet," even though he had learned to stop raising his hand in first grade. He tried to tell himself that he didn't want to be friends with people who couldn't see past his glasses and thought intelligence was a factor to be scorned, but he sometimes wished he weren't so different from them.

Replacing his hand back into his mother's, Mail reminded himself for the millionth time in his life that he only needed his family. They treated him like a person and not a frail and frightening abnormality. He smiled tightly and ignored the sunlight as best he could, realizing that his father's shop was in view.

Mail strained ahead in his excitement, trying to pull his mother across the street and up the ten steps onto the covered porch hallways that stretched along the building. The real tourist season hadn't quite hit Chester yet, but in preparation for the upcoming weeks, his father had decided to rearrange the interior and switch out some old paintings with newer ones that he hoped would sell better. Upon reaching the door, Mail felt a little swirl of excitement and pride; a handmade sign proclaimed the store closed, but he was still allowed to enter and see what went on behind the scenes. He reached up and grasped the doorknob before Cara could get to it and pulled open the door, dropping her hand.

"Da-aa," he called, his feet pattering across the wooden plank floor as he scurried into the adjacent room.

"There's my Mail!" Adair called, turning around and sweeping the small redhead into his arms. "Oops, watch you glasses!" he said jovially, the movement upsetting the enormous lenses so that they sat crookedly on Mail's face. Mail found himself laughing as he looked around at how the room had been set up in his absence.

The walls, which had been a dark cream, had been painted a stark white, making the room seem brighter without a real light being switched on or breaking a hole through the ceiling. Mail could smell the drying paint and realized that there were spots of it on his father's clothes… that had been conveniently transferred to his own shirt.

Of course that was the first thing is mother noticed.

"Adair Jeevas! Put your son down before you get anymore paint on him!" she scolded, addressing him by his name rather than the usual "Da," although Mail could tell she wasn't really mad. Mail's father smiled sheepishly at his wife and set the young redhead back on the ground.

"It's good to see you too, Mum," Adair told her, a glint of mischief hovering in his green eyes. Then they alighted on his daughter and he strode across the room to give her a loud kiss while the three-year-old was still in her carrier.

"Mum, I wan down now," Blair Rose said carefully. "I'm induhpendant, too."

Mail saw his da raise an eyebrow at his mum, who met his glance and bobbed her head in Mail's direction. He wondered if his parents knew that he had caught the reference to himself teaching Blair Rose words she couldn't use properly yet. But his mum was already unstrapping the now-squirmy girl from her back and lowering her to the ground. Blair Rose found her feet easily and pattered over to her father to give his leg a hug.

"Hi Da," she said, looking up at him, her blonde ponytails swinging.

"Hey there, my Chester Rose," he said, looking down at her and using the nickname that was a pun on the galleria.

"Well, the walls look nice, Da," Cara said, looking around the room in admiration. "What else were you planning on doing with the place?"

Mail's father pursed his lips, staring into space pensively. "Well, I imagine I'll put up some paintings, you know?"

Cara tried not to smile, to prove that she had not been fooled by his tongue-in-cheek answer. Mail nearly laughed, enjoying how his parents were teasing each other and also eager to hear what the next step in the decorating would be.

"You should put a picture there, Da," Blair Rose said brightly and pointed to the middle of the opposite wall. Mail could tell that she really wanted to be a part of the conversation.

Adair looked down at his daughter and smiled helplessly into her blue eyes. "Of course, love. I'll put a picture there. But first, I'll need a few of those tablecloths to drape along the tables." He looked up from Blair Rose and to his wife. "I was thinking of that striped one from the back room. I used it a year or two ago?"

Cara nodded, thinking. "I think it was three years ago, Da."

"Really?" he asked, although it was obvious he didn't really mind. Mail decided it was okay for him to join the conversation.

"Can I help, Da?" he asked, knowing the answer would be yes anyway.

"Certainly, my man," his father replied, giving him an appreciative nod. "Let's see…."

"Mail, you could go fetch the striped tablecloth for Da," his mother supplied gently. She came down to Mail's level, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, and looking through his awkward dark sunglasses to his pale green eyes. Mail found it suddenly uncomfortable when she did that, as if she still thought of him as a child closer to Blair Rose's age. He tried not to let his annoyance show on his face, because for he most part, he enjoyed being treated like a normal child by his parents… but then again, that normality had been stifling when he had tried it at school. It was probably just the situations. 'Normal' was a rather subjective word that depended on the situation.

Mail nodded to his mum's question, and Cara stood up, ruffling his auburn hair as his head bobbed. She turned to scoop and swing Blair Rose into her arms energetically, detaching her from Adair's leg and surprising the three-year-old enough for her to burst into giggles. Mail scurried off, glad for the excuse to go into the dark room behind the counter where he could take off his sunglasses and rub the sweat away from where they rested on his nose.

Mail pulled the wooden door open, closing it firmly behind him before he took off his glasses. It was cooler in here and the soft darkness soothed his hypersensitive eyes in a fashion similar to how the closed door muffled the sounds of his mother and sister laughing on the other side. He sighed, hating summer days and leaning his child's body against the door before he remembered he was supposed to be looking for the striped tablecloth.

Pulling open a cabinet drawer, Mail dug around through layers of linen for one that had stripes. He found several, realizing than that he didn't know what color his father wanted. He could either go ask, or he could choose one for his da. He looked down at the fabric underneath his hands, and then to the door, slivers of light piercing around all four sides. He blinked and looked away.

He had red and black stripes, black and white stripes, and one with nearly all the colors of the rainbow in various thicknesses. Mail put the last one down, thinking of his father's latest pieces. They were of the Chester Rows itself, the lattices gleaming in various shades of light, a kind of light that Mail could actually look at without the sharp stabbing pains in his eyes. Thinking this through, Mail realized the logical choice would be the black and white stripes. Red wouldn't look good with all the stark contrasts between the black and white and would only draw a viewer's eye away from his father's paintings.

Mail was replacing the two cloths that he had rejected when he heard the echoing boom and a terrible scream. His heart froze for a moment, all sound gone, until it jumped back in like someone had suddenly plugged in speakers. It was joined shortly by the high-pitched screeching of Blair Rose, the shrieks of his mother incoherent and a stranger's deep male voice yelling angrily in an unfamiliar language.

Mail raced to the door and peered through the cracks before recoiling because he had forgotten his sunglasses. He shoved them on his face, blinking away tears, and feeling the floorboards rattling with the patter of footsteps. His heart racing, Mail squinted, trying to find a position in which he could see what was happening. Nothing helped.

Another boom sounded, and Mail wanted to run from the room, the sharp crack echoing ferociously throughout the building. What was happening? He felt like he should call for his da, for his mum… but knew instinctively that doing that would only result in the strange voice finding _him._ Fear drove his sneakered feet to scramble to the corner the furthest back from the light, his small hands covering the back of his neck as he had learned to do in earthquake drills at school. His teacher had told him that this position would keep him safe, and he believed it now, even though he knew it wasn't an earthquake… this was worse… this was….

Two more cracks reverberated in quick succession and Cara's hysterical cries stopped suddenly. Mail's breath came faster, like silent sobs, and he pressed his hands over his mouth, scared that someone would hear him. Blair Rose squalled harder, and Mail could understand her repetitive syllables calling for their mother. No longer caring if someone heard _him_, Mail squeezed his hands over his ears, not wanting to hear his sister screaming, because if he heard it, he would have to make sense of what was happening. And while his grade school teachers and loving parents had always said he was a brilliant boy, Mail could not—perhaps would not—comprehend the immediate situation. He had heard about hallucinations, perhaps he was experiencing one now? His mum would wonder what was taking him so long and maybe his da would come in to make sure Mail had found the right tablecloth, and they'd all wonder what those noises had—

A final resonating bang silenced Blair Rose's wailing along with Mail's desperate hopes of normality. The heavy footsteps receded towards the exit of the art shop and Mail raced to the crack in the door. A black silhouette was leaving the shop, the stranger's hat nearly scraping the top of the little doorframe and the trenchcoat covering everything else down to the black shoes that flashed ominously at Mail in the dying sunlight. The door jingled pleasantly as it closed, a result of the bell his mother had hung several weeks before.

And then it was over, and Mail retreated back to his small corner. It was surreal, the way the dark was still soft and quiet, soothing his battered mind, and yet, he felt broken, the only witness, the only survivor, the only one… left alone. He knew with clarity that his family was dead, knew logically that a man had entered the closed shop and fired a gun five times, knew undeniably that there had been nothing he could have done to prevent it, and yet… he… couldn't… had never… wouldn't… accept… this, this, this event, this criminal act, this horrible falseness. He wanted his parents, he wanted his sister, and like any other eight-year-old boy, Mail wanted them _now._

Back to the door, Mail flung it open as he cried louder than he could ever remember doing, squeezing his eyes shut against the cruel light and in the hope that he could open his mouth wider and make his voice louder.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaa! Muuuuuuuuuuuuum!"

Silence greeted his plea and Mail carefully opened his eyes, somehow already aware of what he would find, his heart thumping, his subconscious pleading that he look away, that he not notice how red the blood was pooling under his mother's hair, making it look orange in comparison. How Blair Rose's small fingers were still clutching the fabric of his mum's blood-stained dress, but it was his sister's blood, and both of them were still leaking from holes in their bodies, the crimson fluid crossing another floorboard, moving closer to _him_, but he couldn't let it touch him, and it was still moving closer, expanding, _reaching for him._

Hyperventilating, Mail stumbled backwards into the closet, shutting the door tightly again. The images in his mind twisted into monsters made of blood and they were going to attack him, break down the door, and let the burning light into his sanctuary. In desperation, Mail picked up the striped tablecloth and threw it over himself, trying not to whimper from under the heavy material.

Mail crouched in the dark and waited for the unknown, shaking uncontrollably, hands over his ears and hot tears trailing from under his sunglasses.


	2. Chapter 2

Letters

2

**--M--**

**June 16, 2007**

Headlights flickered by the window, illuminating the thin curtain that hung over it and not really providing the kind of darkness Matt preferred. L.A. was certainly bright and loud, even at night.

He ran his hand through his hair, pulling the goggles completely off. It had been a hot day and the orange lenses were starting to stick to his hair, even though he had the air conditioning on. He hadn't even laid a finger on his vest due to the heat, except for the pack of cigarettes he had left in the right pocket. Maybe he'd take a cold shower after midnight to help cool off, and rinse away the painful memories for another year.

Matt had gone to the dollar store across the street earlier that day and bought six candles, three black, three white, but in various sizes. He had then proceeded to pair up a black with each white one and placed them around the room so that he had three groups of flickering soft light. It was depressing to see the little lights in the hotel room, as if the three members of his family were growing dimmer. He knew from experience that it would only get worse as the candles burned all the way down, sputtered, guttered, and died.

He usually cried at that point, allowing himself the chance to do so once a year.

"Hey Blair Rose," Matt called to the two smallest candles. He had only realized that she would probably be as tall as he was after he had bought the candles. It was okay, he figured; she would always be the small, giggling girl in his memories anyway.

"Do you think I'm independent now?" he asked the dying candle. His voice was dry and he nearly laughed at the irony. He needed another cigarette.

A siren passed by outside, red and blue lights flashing, the sound echoing through his memories.

**--M--**

_"Images of broken light_

_  
which dance before me like a million eyes,_

_  
they call me on and on_

_  
across the universe."_

**June 16, 1998**

They seemed to arrive all at once, fleeing from the darkness outside, the whirring sirens jarring Mail out of the hours of silence. So many footsteps, so many voices, loud and harsh, and then suddenly the closet door was beaten open. The police flashlight nearly burned a hole through the fabric of Mail's hiding place.

"Hey," the sharp voice said, and Mail couldn't tell whether it was directed at him or towards another man that was carefully sweeping the area. He pulled the tablecloth over himself tighter, wishing everything would just go away. The tears had stopped long ago and he had been left in a blissful kind of nothingness, but now, things were happening… he would be required to be alive again, or something.

The footsteps came closer, a little softer, as if someone were trying to creep up closer. Mail stiffened, and then the cloth was ripped off him in one quick movement.

Mail screamed.

He was scared, beyond terrified, unable to open his eyes, the light was shining in his face, through his eyelids, and he _knew_ someone was in front of him, but—

"Hey there, kid," a man's soothing voice tried to calm him and he was enveloped in strong warm arms. "Nothing's going t' hurt you now. You're okay, you're okay."

Mail felt himself being rocked slowly back and forth, the light no longer in his eyes, instead thick cotton fabric muffled it. The constable held him and continued to repeat the same phrase, almost like a mantra. But Mail clung to it anyway, putting all his faith into just holding on, letting his own sobs and hiccups drown out the other footsteps and voices, as he was carried out of the closet. He felt a hand press against the back of his head, almost petting his hair, and knew that he must be passing by his family. He didn't try to look.

The cool night air was refreshing to Mail's quivering body. The sobs of relief that had begun as he let go of his shock slowly died down, carried off by the breeze. He focused on that alone, trying not to understand more than the melodic tones of the conversation about what was going to happen to him. It was easy enough to do; the police were whispering or speaking vaguely in the hopes of keeping him calm and away from anything too frightening. But the night calmed him, and Mail was able to lift his head away from the shoulder of the man carrying him to stare off away from the squad cars. Mail stopped crying, and took a deep breath.

It was calm. Yes, there were still the bright flashing lights reflecting off the windows of nearby buildings and the murmur of voices deciding his fate, but _inside_ Mail was still. It was a terribly empty feeling, but tranquil. All of his emotions had been drained and he was left with only the unadulterated knowledge of the events that had transpired. His fingers relaxed their grip from the officer's uniform until he had let go entirely. The policeman didn't notice, still speaking in hushed tones to a woman at Mail's back.

"Um," Mail began, knowing that something was forming in his mind. The officer stopped speaking abruptly, shifting Mail and looking down at him. The woman came into view then, and Mail could see she was a paramedic.

She spoke first, kindly and using the voice of a mother to her three-year-old, "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No," Mail replied clearly, realizing it was easy to answer simple and direct questions. He pushed himself on. "The man didn't come into the closet."

Both of them blinked at his matter-of-fact tone. The officer recovered first, "You saw someone?"

"Yes. It was a man. He was really tall and wore a hat."

The officer's eyes widened. He looked up briefly and yelled over Mail's left shoulder. "Joshua! This kid saw the suspect! Get over here!" His gaze returned to Mail and he smiled encouragingly. "Go on. Can you tell me anything else about this man you saw?"

"He was wearing a long coat, a dark color, but…" Mail hesitated as another man jogged up. He had a notepad and a pen in his left hand, and the name _Joshua Brinkley_ glinted off his badge. Mail looked back to the man who was carrying him and realized he didn't know the man's name. He found the badge under his own chest: his rescuer was _Simon Seaver_. Mail looked up to Officer Simon's eyes to finish his sentence. "I didn't see his face."

"That's fine, little guy," Officer Joshua said soothingly. "Just tell us what you do know, alright?"

"Of course," Mail answered.

He thought for a moment before beginning. It was easy to recall what had happened, seeing it as if he had been removed from the actual events. No one else spoke as he recounted leaving to get the tablecloth, the five shots along with the screams, his own indecision forcing him to run between the corner and the door, the man's hat nearly hitting the doorframe, the spreading blood, the final hiding place. His finished his recitation to meet the shocked stares of the three adults.

"Poor kid," the paramedic murmured, shaking her head and looking at him sorrowfully. "How about you come with me and I'll get you a bit of candy, yeah?"

She reached for him and he was deposited into her arms and away from Simon. He seemed almost relieved to hand off the eight-year-old to a woman, giving Mail a quick pat on the head before turning to Joshua and speaking rapidly.

"Wait!" Mail nearly shouted. He didn't want candy, he didn't want to go with the paramedic, he wanted… he wanted to….

He wanted to solve the crime.

"Shush now, yeah?" the woman said, trying to bounce him up and down a little as if he were a younger child. It wasn't really working.

"No," Mail said firmly, staring her down, focusing on her face and not the flashing lights behind her. "I want to help."

"You _have_ helped," she replied gently. "Now the nice constables are gonna figure out who did this. You helped a lot, and were very brave telling—"

"No." Mail was insistent. He knew he hadn't been brave, knew he had been a coward and now… he needed this, needed to solve it, figure out why this had happened, why his life had suddenly changed, and most importantly who had caused it. "I want to help. I was there, I saw it… if they have a question, I should be there so they can ask. Please put me down, miss."

"No, no, no, love," she said, shaking her head, and Mail snapped, freezing still as ice. She used the same nickname his mother did. _Love…._

"Put me _down!_" Mail shouted, startling the woman. He pushed against her, struggling violently, until she was forced to drop him. He nearly fell over backwards, but recovered his footing and darted back to the other officers, the paramedic chasing him. Simon reached down and scooped him up into a hug again, as if he feared the boy would run right past him.

"No, Officer Seaver, put me down," Mail said to the man. The officer blanched at his own name and Mail remembered that he had only read it and they hadn't introduced themselves yet. But the man put Mail down carefully, his eyes uncertain.

"What's up, kid?" he asked gently.

"I want to help you with the case. Please don't leave me out of it." He put every ounce of determination in his small body into the statements. He knew what he wanted.

Simon looked at Joshua helplessly for a moment before giving Mail a sad smile. "Sorry, kid, but we'll take it from here, okay?"

"No… please, you have to let me help. I can do something, I promise. I'm smart, I can help figure it—"

"Sorry, but don't you worry, kid. We're professionals, yeah? We'll figure out what happened. Why don't you go with the nice lady there and she'll help you figure out where you're going to go from here, yeah?" He smiled encouragingly, nodding, and cupping a hand on Mail's shoulder.

"Officer Brinkley? You'd help me—" Mail tried, but was cut off by a shake of the man's head. Simon released Mail's shoulder just the boy felt the woman's cool hands on both his arms. She was hunching over behind him, and as Mail turned around, she took his hand.

She led him away from the crime scene, chattering about how everything would be fine, he would be all right, there would be someone to take care of him, and why doesn't he have some candy? Mail accepted it without thinking about it.

It was his intelligence again… it made him smart enough to realize he may be capable of helping, his brain had already begun rapidly searching for motives, assassins, clues… but his age prevented him from being useful. His age and his maturity had never matched up completely, and he gritted his teeth at his curse. What would he do now? His family was… gone. And they had been the only ones to really come close to understanding him. Would he be treated like a normal child now? He looked at the candy in his hand, wrapped in a bit of plastic. Was it so bad to be treated normally? If he pretended he wasn't so smart, could he live with that? He began unwrapping the candy, realizing that it was chocolate. Would a normal child eat the candy and do what he was told after his family was murdered? It seemed strange, but his fingers found the treat, and he plopped it into his mouth. It was silly, eating chocolate like nothing was wrong, nothing had changed. He chewed it a little, finding the taste slightly off, but let it melt on his tongue anyway. Did he look normal now? In the dark, with his glasses off, being led to an ambulance by a young woman? His feet felt heavy, and she seemed to be walking faster, but Mail realized that no, he was walking slower and it seemed darker….

**--M--**

The paramedic had drugged him with the chocolate, hoping it would calm him down. It had taken him out completely because she hadn't known he was also taking allergy medicine. He woke the next day at the hospital, a nurse and his class three teacher sitting and conversing in low murmurs.

"Oh, Mail, I'm so sorry," was the first thing he heard.

He learned quickly that he would be spending the next few days with his teacher until they figured out what to do with him permanently. They asked him about any relatives that he knew of, but of course, he didn't have any. Not surprisingly, no one else had found any either. It seemed he would be going to an orphanage somewhere, unless someone adopted him right away, but they were still waiting to hear from the Chesire County Council. Simon and Joshua also came in later that day to ask if he remembered anything else, and gave a little card to his teacher in case he did. Mail asked again whether he could really be a part of the team, but they had refused, as he had guessed they would.

He spent a quiet night at his teacher's house. He almost felt a little sorry for her trying to cheer him up when he wasn't especially sad, just empty again, so it was hard to feel anything. He stayed inside all day, not really moving, just waiting for something to happen to him. But the universe kept moving forward around him, as if nothing had really changed. Mail had become completely static in the aftermath, nearly hopeless, yet knowing that something _had_ to change… he just didn't know what it would be.

He wished the constables would return, Officer Seaver and Brinkley, to ask for something from him. The terrible emptiness left by his family made him hunger for something to fill it with. It wasn't so much painful, as _not_ pleasurable; not really unhappy, but a _lack_ of happiness. Somehow, it was hard to feel anything at all anymore beyond the need to do… something, and the complete deficiency of anything for him to do. And Mail didn't know if it would ever end. Would he always feel as if the world was moving on without him? He suddenly wondered whether he was supposed to have died along with his family. Maybe there had been a mistake and he felt so empty because his existence wasn't supposed to be. He stared at the wall blankly, and tried to feel miserable.

He couldn't even cry. Normal kids were supposed to cry a lot if their families were murdered. So what was he?

He remembered his family, how they had been alive, and then how they had looked dead.

Still nothing. He thought he should feel sad, or even terrified by his own detachment. But… maybe, there _was_ something…. He clung to the feeling, pulling it up by a tremulous thread, the knot being lifted up for closer inspection….

Mail felt himself quiver. He forced himself to remember the shots, the blood, the monster, his own cowardice, the hat, flashes of light, sound, culminating in black and white stripes, and a single powerful emotion emerging from the pit of his stomach. It was a visceral beast, clawing at his insides, fighting to get out suddenly, and Mail wanted—needed—to feel it.

Anger, so much that his tiny body felt as if it could barely contain it. The sense of it was freeing, and Mail let himself go. He wanted to hurt something, knowing dimly that _he_ had been hurt too deeply. That singular drive made him feel alive again, made him into a person, a normal child who could suffer like he was supposed to. That _man_….

Mail wanted him found… and then he wanted him dead.

**--M--**

_June 18, 1998_

_Dear Mr. Mail Jeevas,_

_We offer our condolences for the loss of your family and while we know nothing can ease your pain, we hope we can be of some assistance. As you have no other family members, we would like to adopt you into The Wammy's House. Situated in Winchester, we have a large open campus with two dormitories, twenty-two classrooms, a cafeteria, administration offices, a state-of-the-art computer lab, a five-acre firing range, and a chapel solely for the use of our students and faculty. Our instructors come from all over the globe, and teach a variety of lessons to ensure that the children living here get the same privileges they would find in a family unit. We believe you may be especially interested in our law program._

_We look forward to meeting you in person and hope to see you at Wammy's as soon as possible._

_Sincerely,_

_Quillish Wammy_

_Director_

_The Wammy's House_

Mail stared at the crisp white letter in his hand, the black ink shiny on the vellum. With his glasses, the contrasting black on white… was it a sign? They could have used the typical creamy off-white found in expensive stationary sets with dark blue ink… but they didn't. His mind lurched forward at impossible speeds, wrapping around the possible meanings of the promised law program. Somehow, these people knew him. They knew he would connect the dots, from family to law, from computer lab to firing range. And they were willing to offer him exactly what he wanted. Instinctively, Mail knew the Wammy's House would let him search out the killer alongside the worldy teachers in the state-of-the-art lab, and perhaps he could even use the firing range… perhaps he would serve up Justice to the man with the hat and coat.

At last, something was happening.

**--M--**

_So many thanks to my amazing beta, the SilverSoleAlchmst1, and to the few of you who reviewed the last chapter. And you know you want to click that button. Give in to the temptation._


	3. Chapter 3

Letters

3

**--M--**

**June 17, 2007**

A knock sounded on the door and he could hear a woman's voice call out, tinged with a Spanish accent.

"Room service!"

Matt blinked, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. Groaning, he realized he hadn't put up the do-not-disturb sign. And now it was morning. His eyes blearily found the clock, its red light displaying the time.

11:26.

The door opened, as Matt realized he hadn't answered the maid's call. He rolled over in the bed, the sheets exposing his naked shoulder, just in time to see a plump Mexican woman excuse herself abruptly, muttering apologies. Matt lay back in the bed, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. For once, he didn't want a cigarette; the smoke from the candles had been enough for him last night and the air felt vaguely cleaner without the nicotine clouding his senses. Running a hand through his hair, he took another breath and tried to sink back into the mattress.

He'd been up until the sun's light began peaking through the cheap curtains. That meant he'd only been asleep for a few hours. The candles had gone out long before he had retired for the morning, but Matt had never needed them for the light. It was really the symbolism, the candles dying out, sputtering their last breath… and how by removing his goggles, he allowed his eyes to be extra sensitive on these occasions. The raw pain of staring at the burning wicks had seared his soul. He felt better now, like he used to, more refreshed than he had since….

Since he'd gotten his hands on the Nintendo Wii last November. Matt let himself crack a smile at his own foolish attempts at making jokes. Certainly, _last_ June he hadn't felt so refreshed after that particular vigil… even though after years of his ritual he had become accustomed to the release it brought….

He figured he was allowed some small laugh, even if it was at his own expense. He was especially allowed one before going to see Mello. God only knew how both of them had changed. And what the information Matt had would do to the blond.

**--M--**

"_I'm not afraid of what I'll face_

_But I'm afraid to stay_

_I'm going down my road and I can make it alone_

_I'll work and I'll fight till I find a place of my own."_

**June 19, 1998**

The sidewalk soaked up the sun greedily, and Mail wondered if it would really be possible to fry an egg on it. He didn't hold his teacher's hand, preferring to trudge along behind her… although he was walking through a town he'd never been in before. He watched the sidewalk through squinted eyes, and decided the city would look better at night. But for now, the sun beat down on his auburn hair, and like always, Mail felt his glasses slipping down his nose.

"Here we are, Mail," his teacher said encouragingly, her steps pausing. Mail brought his head up from the ground, and caught his first glimpse of his new residence, wondering if he could ever really bring himself to call anywhere other than Chester his home.

Grey stone fences held a wrought iron gate, and an impressive view of tall cathedrals… or so Mail thought at first. He remembered something about a chapel, but there had only been one, and here all the buildings seemed to hold stained glass windows, tall and narrow, among intricate gargoyles and Gothic arches. They glinted brightly in the sun, dazzling Mail with the sharp imprints of white over color. He felt his eyes beginning to water, but felt he should actually look at the Wammy's House in the daylight first. It was probably expected of him.

He followed the teacher towards one of the buildings, tears beginning to streak down his face as he craned his head to look up at the tall buildings. Curtains fluttered from the inside, and Mail found himself wondering who and what was inside.

Mail nearly tripped over the first step, his head still tilted back, but he managed to catch himself on the railing and ascended the few stairs to the administrative building. Inside, the air conditioning worked wonders on his sweaty clothes. As his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent light through his glasses, he found there were already three men in the room.

One stepped forward, his graying mustache waggling as he spoke. "Welcome to the Wammy's House. I'm Quillsh Wammy and it's a pleasure to meet you." He held out a large, inviting hand.

Mail found that the teacher had stepped back so that he was standing alone in the center between these two groups. The past behind him, and the future ahead? He was standing on the threshold, Mail realized suddenly. Would things go back to normal if he rejected that hand and its invitation? What would happen if he didn't take it?

Mail hesitated, glancing quickly back to the teacher behind him, then found his attention caught by the other two men behind Wammy. They were both watching him, the man in the suit with a fatherly interest, but the other man was much younger, and he stared with abject fascination while crouching on a chair. Mail's eyes met with the teenager's black pupils for a moment nearly making Mail panic before he realized his dark glasses probably prevented anyone from knowing where he was looking. Returning his eyes back to the hand before him, Mail reached up and took his glasses off his face before looking straight into the eyes of the orphanage's founder. He saw warmth and kindness there… and an honesty that adults usually hid from children. Mail suddenly felt as if Quillsh Wammy saw him for who he was… the same way his parents had.

What would happen if he didn't take the hand? He didn't want to find out. He knew only that he would miss the opportunities that would allow him to get his revenge. With this thought firmly in place, Mail took a step forward.

"I'm Mail Jeevas. It's nice to meet you too, sir," he said, taking the offered hand. It was warm and reassuring. Wammy smiled, shaking hands once, and then looked over Mail's head to the woman who had brought the boy to Winchester.

"I'm sure we can take it from here. Why don't you two say some goodbyes and then," he looked back down at Mail, "I'll show you to your new room."

Mail nodded, turning back to his former teacher. He felt the near physical divide between them now. The gap really only a few feet, but it felt as if he had crossed an ocean to get there. Was this how change happened?

"Thank you for taking care of me, Miss T.," Mail told her, trying his best to sound sincere. The woman smiled gently, but didn't come any closer. Mail wondered if she felt the gap between them too.

"You're certainly welcome. You take care now, Mail, okay?"

Mail nodded. Feeling as if that was all that was necessary, he turned away from her and looked back up at Wammy. He heard the door open and close behind him; his teacher would be gone now.

"Well then, let's get you started," the man said cheerfully. "Come with me."

Mail smiled tentatively and put his glasses back on, following the elderly man's long strides out into the sunlight again. He ignored the two other sets of eyes that watched him leave and the hushed conversation that picked up as his feet pattered out the door.

"Your room is going to be up there," Wammy explained once they were both outside, pointing to a dark grey building, its gothic architecture daunting enough to make Mail feel even smaller than he was. "It's on the fourth floor, but I think that's where you'll fit in the best."

Mail nodded, but having glanced at the building once, he kept his sensitive eyes on the sidewalk trail between the two buildings.

"Oh, but before we get there, you should know that everyone here goes by code names," Wammy said, pausing in his walk to look down at Mail.

"Code names?" Mail asked, his heart sinking a little. Had he gotten it all wrong and they really expected him to behave like a child? Did they think he would cheer up and shove off his plans for revenge if he got to use a special code name?

"Yes, code names," Wammy said directly. He paused and Mail imagined Wammy was waiting for him to look up into his guardian's face. The redhead didn't, but the man continued anyway. "That way no one can connect your real name and personal information to the work you do."

Mail tore his eyes off the sidewalk. "You mean like my age, sir?"

"Exactly," Wammy said, as if he had expected Mail to make the leap at that moment, if not some time before. "You want to solve your parents' murder, don't you? Here, we recognize how intelligent you are. We will give you the tools and the training to become a top-notch detective… if you want them. It's why I invited you to live here."

Mail could hardly believe what he was hearing, despite how he had been desperately hoping it was true. His own sneaking suspicion of his purpose at the Wammy's House had nearly knocked him off his feet. He forgot the irritating sunlight, and could only stare in wonder at the man who was offering him the world.

"If that is your choice, you will be tested in every way possible," Wammy continued, his voice becoming firm. "It will not be easy, even for someone with your capabilities. I will always do what I can to help you, but it is _you_ who wishes to become a detective, it is _you_ who must succeed."

Mail could only nod, drawn into every syllable of Wammy's words, every challenge the man initiated. Mail would not fail; he needed his revenge. He would utilize everything the Wammy's House offered and find the man with the hat before the police. Officers Brinkley and Seaver would wish they had let him help, even though he was slightly glad they hadn't: he would have never arrived at this luxurious gothic orphanage otherwise. And once he had found the killer and he had been given Justice, Mail would continue on, for the people like him. Mail would be that detective. He nodded, leaving his face upturned towards Wammy.

"Remember that no one else will understand or give you credit for your accomplishments if you are simply Mail Jeevas, an eight year old boy born in Chester, England. That is the first reason for using a different name: your new name will not be tarnished by your age." Wammy paused for a moment, to clear his throat and began again, a very serious expression on his bespectacled face. "Detectives also make enemies; you will use your code name as a shield. You will be a faceless warrior of justice, and your false name will protect your true self."

It was all Mail never thought to ask for. He nodded slowly, and he wasn't sure if his eyes were watering because of the sunlight or Wammy's words.

"Tell no one your real name and especially what you do. Not the other children, not even the other staff members or your teachers. It is of the utmost importance, my boy. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Mail stated, swallowing.

"Then from now on, you will be Matt."

The man pronounced it carefully, as if he were knighting the young boy. And it felt like he had been suddenly given a great responsibility like knighthood as well, his heart pounding in his ears. Being a detective, like a knight, entailed protecting others, saving kingdoms, moving forward into battle, and Mail felt wholly ready for it. In reality, he knew nothing had changed from a few moments ago. He was still a small redheaded boy, newly arrived at an orphanage, anger flaring in his chest whenever he thought of a tall shadowed figure. He still had painfully green eyes that needed protection every moment he was outside. He still felt empty without his mother's hand, his father's laugh, and his sister's smile.

But he was no longer Mail.

**--M--**

"I'll take you to your room now, Matt," Wammy said and began moving forward again down the sidewalk. Matt found himself taking at least two steps to every one of the aging man's strides, but he kept pace, somewhat anxious to see what it looked like.

Wammy led Matt into the aforementioned dormitory, and Matt found himself in a large common room, dark red carpeting on mahogany floors. The polished wood rose halfway up the sides of the wall, the remaining portion spackled cream to match the ceiling. A few worn-looking Victorian-styled chairs nestled between a large black sofa and a water-stained coffee table. Two teenage girls in shorts and tank-tops sat on the couch, flipping through fashion magazines. They glanced up at Matt just as the acrid scent of toe nail polish assaulted his nostrils.

"Veronica. Cassandra," Wammy began in heavy tones, "How many times must I remind the two of you that you can't paint your nails inside the dormitories?"

The girls looked sheepish, set down their magazines to screw lids on the colorful little bottles on the coffee table, and muttered apologies. Matt could almost feel Wammy sigh beside him.

"And since it's such a nice day, I'm surprised the two of you aren't outside enjoying the sun." He looked down at the redhead next to him, and then back to the grumbling teenagers. "This is Matt. It's his first day here, so if you see him around again, please do your best to welcome him to the House."

"Sure, Wammy," one of them said, smiling towards Matt as if she thought he were as cute as a button. He thought that one was Cassandra. The other girl gave a smile and a wave before grabbing her friend and the two skittered off in the opposite direction.

Matt looked up to his caretaker. "There are girls in this dorm?"

"On the first and second floors. The third and fourth floors are for boys," Wammy explained. "The B dormitory is also set up that way."

So he was in the A dormitory, Matt guessed. He followed Wammy across the room to a large staircase, a single, wide landing between each floor. It was the same wood covered in the same reddish carpet, tarnished golden rods holding the worn fabric in place between steps. Matt could see where thousands of orphan's footsteps had fallen in the same places he was now putting his own feet.

He was tired by the time he reached the fourth floor, and he wondered if he'd get used to the long flights. The older man in front of him seemed perfectly fine, so Matt supposed he'd get used to marching up and down them several times a day.

He found himself in a large corridor, about ten doors on each side. Sunlight streamed through long windows that paralleled the hallway were raised several feet above the tops of the doors. The first door on his left held a large letter "L." The one on his right read "M" in the same neat calligraphy strokes. Seeing "N" after "L" on the left, Matt guessed the pattern as he saw that "O" was across from it. Wammy paused in front of the third door on the left-side, and Matt suddenly felt confused. It too held an "M," identical to the first door on the right. So was there a pattern at all? What did the letters mean?

"This is your room, Matt," Wammy said, allowing the boy to open the door himself.

Inside, Matt found it dark and quiet, a simple single bed in the corner, a nightstand next to it, a desk and a wardrobe by on the opposite wall. He stepped inside, noticing suddenly that there should be a window, but no light trickled in from the far wall. He took off his glasses and then found that he could make out a darker square on the shadowed white walls. It had already been boarded up, something that Matt had always wanted to do when he had been Mail.

In the center of the small room, Mail turned back to face Wammy's silhouette, his tall figure nearly obscuring the door.

"Thank you," Matt said, feeling a little awkward. "For the window… and well, for everything."

It sounded lame, but Wammy just nodded his head and Matt made out a faint smile on his face.

"You're very welcome, my boy. Now, I have to go run errands for the House, but I'll be back by dinner. I suggest you go have a look around; I would bet all the other children can be found outside, enjoying the nice weather." The man backed a step out the door and then turned down the hallway, disappearing from Matt's view as he left.

Matt sighed, thinking that he didn't really want to go outside into the bright light. Especially after finding his room had been transformed into a sanctuary designed specifically for him. Still, it was probably best to follow the advice of the man who seemed to know everything... and he would have to go outside at some point. Matt sighed again, and sat on his bed, testing it out a little. It was very comfortable. He relaxed onto his back, but then sat up quickly as his eyes landed on a small key lying on the nightstand.

It only took him a moment to figure out what it was: his own room key.

Not really sure how he had decided it, Matt found himself leaving his room, locking it behind him and walking down the four flights of stairs to look for other children outside. He naturally turned first to the shady side of his own building, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. Matt stepped off the sidewalk, and onto the mowed lawns. The grass was springy, especially after the hard pavement he had been walking along a good portion of the day.

He spotted a group of six children as soon as he turned the corner. They looked to be about his age, sitting with their backs against the wall, and talking amongst themselves. Feeling suddenly nervous, Matt had to remind himself to continue walking.

They looked up and quieted as he approached and it didn't help the butterflies that swarmed in his stomach. Would they like him? Or would they know he was… different?

"Who are you?" a girl asked curiously, peering up at him. Matt nearly sagged in visible relief; her tone held no hint of mocking.

"I'm Matt," he said. There was a short awkward pause. "I'm new… but I'm going to be living here. With all of you. I guess," Matt hurried to cover up the silence with sentences he belatedly realized were even more awkward.

The girl smiled and sat up straighter, holding out her hand. "My name's Linda."

Matt shook her hand as the other children began chorusing out their own names, nearly in unison, which then turned into laughter at the ridiculousness of expecting Matt to have understood it all. Matt found himself included into their circle, sitting between Sebastien and Michelle, and enjoying it. They seemed a lot nicer than the kids he remembered from school in Chester. After discovering that Sebastien, Hanz, and Vladimir were all from the Continent, he figured it was probably because the kids were all so tolerant of each others differences already. In fact, as they each tried saying the same words with their respective accents, Matt felt like his slightly Scouse accent was something to be appreciated even while they were laughing at Sebastien's thick French accent. Only Robert and Michelle were actually from Winchester itself, so with the majority of the group not from southeast England, Matt could tell they felt jealous with that they were so _average_. It was a new experience for Matt, and he found himself enjoying everything, taking in the latest rumors of the other orphans at the Wammy's House.

"I heard that he's going to be expelled," Michelle said conspiratorially. Her dark hair was wild and hung over half her sunburned face.

Linda leaned in, blonde ponytails swinging, intent on one-upping the other girl. "Yeah, because he tried to kill the albino."

She nodded intently, as the others stared in fascination at her, and Matt stared as well, even though he didn't believe the gossip. Still….

"Wammy's has an albino?" he asked, unable to restrain himself, but not really caring to do so either.

Sebastien, on Matt's left, answered before the rest. "Yeah, he is very white, and—"

"It's not surprising you haven't seen him," Robert said, cutting Sebastien off, "He hardly ever leaves his room… he's one of _those_ kids."

Matt suddenly felt left out. "_Those _kids?" He asked, his face wrinkled in confusion as he tried to give his words the same inflection Robert's had. He felt his glasses slip down his nose a little.

"Yeah, you should watch out for them. They're crazy," Robert replied. He scrunched up his eyes for emphasis, making Michelle giggle.

"Mello's one of them too; he's the kid that's going to be expelled," Linda said matter-of-factly.

"The other's a girl," Hanz volunteered.

"So what's wrong with them?" Matt asked, and he felt a little queasy. Was this how people had talked about him when he had been labeled the strange kid? But no, Linda, Michelle, Sebastien, Robert, Vladimir, and Hanz were all tolerant of this sort of thing. So these other kids—_those_ kids—must be truly awful.

"They've got lots of problems," Linda said first.

"Mello is the baddest," Vladimir tried before being smacked by Robert who hissed 'worst' at him. Everyone laughed as Vladimir turned delicately pink and smiled sheepishly.

"But seriously," Michelle began, drawing everyone's attention to her, "They don't attend the regular classes and they act all… weird. They're all new kids too. Mello's real violent—he nearly killed someone his second day here. Near's the albino and he can't speak either. No one ever sees him. Then there's Orphan. Yeah, that's her actual _name_. She has about fifty cats in her room. It's creepy."

Everyone else nodded, with expressions as if they were crossing their hearts. Matt just nodded along with them, trying to figure out whether any of it was really true or whether they were just teasing. He figured they were telling him what they believed… and Matt found himself liking the thought of being on the inside and pointing fingers at those outside. It was much more fun than being pointed at.

"But it's probably time for dinner," Michelle said, looking down into the grass.

"I'm so hungry," Hanz said, standing up and brushing himself off. The others followed suit until Robert yelled.

"Last one there is a rotten tomato!"

**--M--**

Dinner had been a rowdy affair. With approximately thirty kids per table, and three tables in the cafeteria, Matt found it much louder than the single family dinners he was used to. Despite the noise, however, Matt got to sit next to his new friends, and they just nodded along when he shyly explained why he was still wearing his sunglasses inside. And the food had been delicious: beef stew with dumplings, jacket potatoes, salad, and apple juice, Matt's favorite drink.

He had said goodnight to his new friends, discovering that all the other boys he had met lived in the other dormitory. Linda and Michelle, however, lived on the second floor below him, so he walked back with them and only had the last two flights of stairs to walk on his own. Upon reaching the top floor, Matt found it quiet and he wondered who else lived behind the other lettered doors.

He unlocked his own room, and was greeted with the complete darkness within. Feeling suddenly very alone and almost unnaturally afraid in the big open hallway, Matt quickly entered and locked the door behind him.

In the utter blackness, Matt stumbled over to the bed and found a pair of pajamas laid out for him. He changed quickly and climbed under the covers, discarding his clothes to the floor. The room was perfectly quiet, without the rustle of blankets or crying from Blair Rose's room, the sound of the creaking house, and the heavy footfalls of his parents moving around after his bedtime. In the inky darkness of his new room, it was as if nothing else existed beyond his own mind. With no sound, no light, and only a vague smell of air-freshener, his senses felt muffled, trapped almost.

Reminding himself that he had never been afraid of the dark, Matt pulled the covers up over his head and snuggled into the bed. It really was very comfortable. He hummed quietly to break the deafening silence and slowly drifted off to sleep.

**--M--**

_Thank you for reading another chapter! I hope you've all enjoyed it thus far! For those of you wondering when I'll bring in some more familiar characters... that will be next chapter. XD Thanks to my awesome beta, SlvrSoleAlchmst1, and please leave a review!!_


	4. Chapter 4

Letters

4

--M--

**June 17, 2007**

Matt pulled up his jeans, buckling the belt and slipping the leather end through a belt loop. His black boxers still peeked over the top edge of the denim fabric and he wondered vaguely why he ever wore a belt. Disregarding the notion, he picked up his shirt, pulling the stripes on over his head and down his torso. Next came the goggles that he pulled down around his neck before lifting them back up over his eyes with practiced ease. Done that way, his auburn hair wouldn't get caught between his skin or eyes and the black foam padding.

Matt glanced around the room, the colors closer to what he was used to again. Warmer, although not in the same way the sun was beginning to beat down and reflect off the concrete. This was softer, more comfortable. And there were the boots he was looking for.

He sat on the edge of the bed to strap on the black biker boots, buckling them on tightly. A grim smile crossed Matt's face, wondering if Mello wore the same kind of boots. Well, he'd find out today.

Anxiousness erupted suddenly in his chest and Matt found it difficult to breath. _He was going to see Mello today…._ It was strange, he hadn't been nervous before, but now that the moment was nearly upon him, it was hard to swallow, unexpectedly an arduous effort to gather his thoughts. What would Mello look like? How exactly would Matt tell the blond what had happened? Mello's reaction… would it be anything like how terrible Near's had been?

Matt fervently wished the answer to the question was no. Mello and Near had survived together only because they were opposites that fed off each other's weaknesses. Near thrived on his all-consuming apathy, his ability to manipulate others to do what he wanted; Mello used his emotions to fuel his curiosity and fight back, his strength forcing others to give in to him.

But what would Mello do when he reached the same conclusion that Matt had? When he found out there was no one to fight back against? That the enemy had escaped forever?

That was the part that hurt the most… that there would be no revenge.

Matt clenched his fist against the nervous pit of fear writhing in his stomach, snakes hissing and slithering. He snatched up his gloves, the last vestiges of his signature summer outfit—the same as his winter outfit minus the warm vest—still unworn, and stuffed his fingers inside them. He clenched his fist again, watching the leather wrinkle and stretch, catching the light, always, always reflecting into an orange haze. He didn't feel any calmer, and it was still time to leave.

His duffle bag slung over his shoulder, his hotel key in hand, Matt strode out the door onto the outdoor second story hallway. He gulped down a mouthful of air, sure as the oxygen flooding his system that he wouldn't be calm again until after he had seen his blond rival.

--M--

"_Not supposed to be scared of anything,_

_But I don't know where I am._

…

_There's no one here to talk to_

_And the pain is making me numb."_

**June 20, 1998**

"Open the fucking door!" The abrupt and sudden hammering made Matt gasp, jumping out of bed like a startled rabbit, heart thumping. "I swear I'm gonna make you regret ever putting foot on the fourth floor, you bastard!"

The lock rattled violently, and Matt found himself taking several steps away from it and into the corner. The room was darker than his eyes closed on a cloudy night on the moors, the blackness deeper than Matt had could remember ever experiencing. The only hint that it was daytime was the anorexic line of light coming through the small crack under the door. He found it wasn't bright enough to require his glasses and was thankful for that, at least.

"Fuck you!!" screamed the hysterical voice, and Matt realized it was a child. A boy, probably close to his own age. The door bulged inward slightly with another loud thump and Matt jumped. Why was someone trying to get him? What had he done? What was going on?

Straining his ears, Matt could hear another, quieter voice as the shouter stopped pounding away at Matt's door.

"I don't give a damn, Near!" The angry voice roared vehemently in reply, "I'm not gonna let some _new_ dumbass usurp _my _place!!"

Another mumble from the quieter, and Matt assumed, more sensible of the two speakers.

"I WILL NOT LOSE!!"

And then silence.

Matt shivered in the dark, eyes intent on the small fissure of light from under the doorway. Paralyzed with fear, he was waiting for the wailing sound of sirens or the moment his door would suddenly burst open full of constables….

"Honestly," came a young girl's patronizing voice, cutting deeply and jarring against Matt's memories of the night of the murder, "You're only going to get in more trouble and then they really will throw you out."

"Ha, they'll throw you out before me, Orphan. First of all, you're a girl, and second, you're nowhere near as bright as I am… you're not even as smart as Near." The boy's taunting voice was sharp and cruel, as Matt began to grasp the truth.

Of course, these children outside his door… they were the ones his friends had warned him about. These were _those_ kids. The one that had nearly beaten down the door had to be Mello, the quiet one was Near, and the girl had already been identified as Orphan. She liked cats? Matt suddenly felt sick, realizing to who the letters on the doors in the hallway stood for: the strange kids ostracized by the rest of the orphanage.

So who did L stand for then?

"Just you wait, I'm going to be better than both of you _combined_," Orphan cut back. Matt could hear footsteps stomping off back down the hallway, and a door opening and slamming. He wondered which one of them had left, but assumed it had been Orphan, forcing herself to have the final say in the matter.

Matt crept back closer to the door, wondering if the other two were planning to leave. Hearing nothing further, Matt ventured to the doorway and put his ear to the wooden barricade.

Nothing. They must have already left. Matt found himself sighing in relief, leaning against the door, his legs feeling like jelly. He allowed himself to sink towards the floor—

"So you _are_ in there, you bastard!" Mello shouted again, his voice and the renewed pounding scaring a short shriek out of Matt as he scurried around to face the door. He could hear his heart pounding frantically in his ears and he wanted to cry… surely this wasn't going to be a daily experience? None of _those_ kids had ever seen him. Why would Mello already be bullying him? There was no way for them to know he was different, that he was a freak….

"Mello," a voice said softly. Near was still there too.

"What?!"

"You really will lose your place here, won't you? You know they only brought this one in because of your temper. If you don't learn how—"

Near's mocking tones were silenced by the sharp sound of a fleshy slap. Mello's words were low and dangerous, sending a shiver of fear spiraling down Matt's spine even though they weren't directed at him. "Since you were so kind to offer, _Near_, you can help me with my little anger problem. How's that sound?"

Matt wished desperately he could see what was happening, feeling the tension between the other two boys through the door. On second thought, Matt decided he much preferred the safety of his own room; he wouldn't even unlock it at the moment if someone paid him a million pounds.

Near whimpered, a painful, forced sound. Matt imagined him gritting his teeth as he spoke; Mello was probably twisting his arm or his hair. "Let go, Mello; they'll expel you."

"Something tells me otherwise," Mello bit off caustically. There was a sharp thump against the door, a skull connecting solidly to wood followed instantly by a cry of pain. Nothing could disguise the sounds of Mello dragging the other boy off down the hallway, despite how Matt heard no protests from the quieter boy.

Matt sat on the floor, several feet from the door and just let himself breath into the quiet. He waited, the silence deafening, the darkness complete. Unable to muster the strength to move, Matt let his mind go completely blank, blissfully losing himself, so he wouldn't have to listen to his mind replaying the terror that were the other tenants in his hall. After what seemed an eternity and yet far too soon, Matt stood, his legs shaky. In reality, it had been ten minutes since he had stopped focusing on the anything, and he decided to get dressed, grab his glasses, and peer into the hallway. Once he had ascertained the coast was clear, he slipped out, locked the door quickly behind him, and darted off down the stairway. Matt didn't stop until he had made it outside the building, his heart pounding a furious cadence in his chest.

He felt like crying again, but pushed the lump in his throat down. Matt was a detective; he didn't cry. He decided on breakfast instead; that would surely make him feel better and maybe he would see Robert or Sebastien. If Linda was there, Matt was sure she would be interested in his story about _those_ kids, and telling it dramatically would only improve his standing within their little group. He just couldn't let them know how scared he had been… being frightened was for little kids, after all, Matt thought wryly. He had been frightened before, as Mail, but he was past that now. What could Mello, Near, and Orphan do to him that he couldn't deal with?

Matt entered the refectory, his eyes reaching a clock as his nose found breakfast. 8:20 a.m. and a full English fry-up. Matt could smell the bacon and sausage the strongest, the meat still sizzling somewhere in the kitchens. Deciding he'd search the cafeteria later for his friends, Matt went first to get some breakfast. Taking a warmed plate, Matt dumped scrambled eggs, bacon, baked beans, mushrooms, and a piece of fried bread onto it until it nearly overflowed. He also managed to fill himself up a glass of apple juice and then turned to face the tables, his eyes scanning the crowd through his dark glasses.

He spotted Robert, Sebastien, Hanz, and Michelle sitting at the center of the second table, effectively placing themselves in the center of the room. Weaving his way through other children, Matt arrived at the table and slid into a seat next to Hanz.

"Hi," he said, setting his plate down and grinning.

It was the moment right before no one replied that Matt felt his smile diminish. They didn't look at him directly, instead inspecting him sideways as if he had some kind of disease. Matt quickly took off his glasses, believing his eyes could hold out while inside the refectory. He gave them an earnest look through green orbs.

"Hey?" he queried, his voice faltering as Michelle turned to look at him directly. Her face was still bright red from sunburn and shiny from aloe vera gel but her hair as dark as ever. She looked down her nose at him even though they were about the same height.

"As an outsider, what do you think of the human race?" she asked, stating clearly that Matt was no longer welcome. Hanz laughed. Matt felt like he had been slapped in the face.

"What's the matter, guys?" Matt asked, willing his eyes not to water. He tried to believe they were joking around, trying to fool him into being gullible or something. But even his own voice betrayed his true feelings and nearly broke when he tried to force a laugh.

Robert glanced at him and then down at his own plate. He, at least, seemed a little repentant. "You're one of those fourth floor kids. That means there must be something wrong with you."

The words echoed throughout Matt's brain. Something… wrong? That couldn't—no, his mind told him firmly, he knew he wasn't normal, and obviously he couldn't last a day pretending it. He had been foolish to hope for normal childhood friendships when he had lost whatever made him childlike. When he could look back on the murder scene and not cry, but only feel anger. He didn't belong with these ordinary kids. And hadn't Wammy said the fourth floor was where he would fit in the best? But it was with _those_ kids… the one who had threatened him, the one who was probably being beaten, the know-it-all sounding girl, and then the mysterious person who must live behind door L. Matt belonged… with them? He had made up his mind to not be afraid of them, but that didn't mean he wanted anything to do with them. He couldn't really see what they might have in common.

Then again, he had yet to meet the four others.

"We don't want you here, Matt. I mean, for all we know," Michelle said, making eye contact with the boys for confirmation, "you're gonna go crazy and kill us all."

They all nodded, the same look that meant they believed it, cross their hearts, stick a needle in their eyes. For a moment, Matt saw a flash of genuine fear cross Linda's eyes, followed by a softening into sadness. The same look from the day before when they had talked about Mello nearly killing the albino… Near. And suddenly, Matt wasn't so sure they were lying, or at least deceiving themselves as well. After what he had heard that morning, maybe Near _would_ end up dead at Mello's hands. But Matt himself already felt the urge to kill someone, even if it were only for revenge for his parents and sister…. Suddenly, Matt found himself placing all his faith into Wammy and the room the man had chosen for him. These other children around him… they were not his friends. He didn't know if the other kids on the fourth floor would like him, but he could survive easily as a loner if he had to. He had bigger goals, and he didn't need these selfish children in any way.

Matt replaced his glasses, and stood from the table. He took his plate in his hands; they were shaking slightly. Vladimir's eyes flicked over his quavering muscles, and Matt was no longer hungry. He set the plate down again. Exhaling heavily and squeezing back the burning sensation behind his eyes, Matt just let everything go. He turned and left the building without saying a word.

Green eyes stinging with frustration, Matt kept them pointed at the ground, replacing his sunglasses after wiping at his face furiously. How could he have been so blind as to believe that he could fit in with the normal children? Well, he certainly wouldn't make that mistake again. A shadow obscured the sidewalk a split-second before Matt collided with a solid body.

"Matt…" his caretaker said, catching a hold of the boy's shoulders. Matt didn't meet his gaze, hoping Wammy wouldn't see the tears hiding in his eyes and behind the glasses. He would probably believe Matt wasn't ready for the task of becoming a detective if he saw him crying.

Matt suddenly found himself embraced in a tight hug, Wammy's arms encircling him and patting his back comfortingly. Without realizing what he was doing, Matt found himself hugging the man back, burying his face into Wammy's big shoulder. His reflexes seemed to take control, and Matt found himself crying, the first time since his parents' death.

"Matt, I'm sorry." Wammy's voice was soft and sincere. Matt nodded into the man's coat. "But you can't blame the other children; they just don't understand. They're not… mature enough."

Matt found himself agreeing wholeheartedly, and fresh tears stopped trailing down his cheeks. Why had he been so upset? He hadn't even known them for more than twenty-four hours.

Matt blinked rapidly as the sunlight filtered through his glasses. Wammy had released him from the embrace. The man held Matt back to arm's length, a fatherly smile on his face and one eyebrow quirked.

"Why, Matt, aren't those the same clothes you wore yesterday?"

Matt looked down at his shirt, even though he knew they were. He nodded sheepishly.

"No one came to find you to take you to the basement?" Wammy questioned, a slight frown on his face.

Matt shook his head, before reaching up to wipe the last remnants of tears off his face.

"Well, come on then, my boy. The Hampshire Children's Services would likely take you away if you wore the exact same clothes everyday," Wammy said, another fatherly smile playing over his face along with a chuckle. He straightened up without waiting for a reply, taking Matt's hand and leading him to Building A's dormitories.

Wammy took Matt to the opposite side of the building, where there was another staircase, matching the one Matt had already used. In addition to four flights up, this one also led underground. After the kind gestures to make Matt feel better, he felt like he had lost something important when Wammy released his hand to venture down the stairs, sliding a hand down the railing instead.

Fluorescent lighting greeted Matt with its aloof yet faithful glare. Underneath its sharp luminosity, racks of clothes stood in rows. The whole setup all looked like nothing more than a used clothing store, just without the red sale tags.

Wammy walked to the third aisle, and then turned to face his young charge. "The clothing on this aisle should fit you. Go take a look and pick out anything and everything you like, my boy."

Stepping between the racks, Matt felt like he was entering a forest. The fabric silenced the background white noise and his own breathing seemed louder. And was that his heartbeat? He stopped, turning to the stand next to him where clothes of all colors and textures hung a little haphazardly. Seeing a green sleeve, Matt pulled it out only to find it had a logo with a pink heart on the chest. It was a girl's t-shirt. He put it back hurriedly, checking to see if Wammy had noticed from the end of the aisle. It didn't seem like he had.

By the time Matt reached the opposite side of the room, he had several t-shirts, two tank tops, and one long sleeved shirt. From the other side of the aisle he had taken three pairs of jeans and two pairs of shorts. Feeling happy with his chosen attire, he looked for Wammy at the other side of the row, but the man had disappeared. Instead of walking back down the aisle, Matt stepped closer to the wall and poked his head around it, looking down the rows of clothes that were one size too big for him.

He didn't see the aging caretaker, but his eyes caught on something else. That fabric… it was really nothing more than a black and white striped sleeve, but the width of the bands, the intensity of the black… it was the same.

He pulled the hanger off the rack, and held the cotton shirt up to himself. It would be a little baggy, but not enough to bother him. Especially not if it were this pattern of sharp contrasts, something that would be a constant reminder of his goal. His eyes darted down the rest of the aisle, picking out stripes among the hanging sleeves. He ran back to the aisle of clothes that fit him, stripes flashing before his eyes. There was a tan and black one that he found himself retrieving, the material soft and almost silky. Then a red and black one, somewhat reminiscent of the other tablecloth, although the shirt was closer to the maroon side of the spectrum.

"Find anything you like?" Wammy's voice questioned from behind him. Matt hadn't noticed him walk up, but he didn't jump.

"Yeah," Matt said simply, not looking up or turning around, his eyes still on the latest striped shirt.

"There should be clean underwear and socks in your wardrobe when you get back to your room. You can either take these up yourself or—"

"I'll take them," Matt said quickly. He would have to get used to the four flights of stairs anyway, and he had been planning on returning to his room before he had quite literally run into Wammy.

"Yes, it's probably a good idea to let you become entirely responsible for yourself," Wammy sighed. Matt got the distinct feeling that Wammy wished he could help him more, but then the man was pulling something out of his coat. He unfolded the piece of paper, and held it out to Matt. "This is your schedule. You'll start classes on Monday, Matt."

He took the paper carefully, balancing the clothes over his arm, glancing down at the little spreadsheet without really reading it.

"Thank you, sir," Matt replied.

Wammy just smiled and nodded once, allowing Matt to dismiss himself if he chose. Matt took the opportunity and slipped out the aisleway and to the exit. Clothes bundled up in his arms, he marched up the stairs, almost gasping for air when he reached the top, bobbing off down the hallway to his room. He leaned the clothes against the door, freeing one arm to dive into his pocket and retrieve his key.

The air inside his room was warm, but not muggy. Matt let the door close behind him, setting the clothes down on his bed in a heap, before taking off his sunglasses and then locking his door. He didn't want Mello or someone coming in unexpectedly.

And why shouldn't he take security precautions seriously? Maybe that was part of the point…. Maybe Wammy had put him up here on the fourth floor so he would be challenged, so that the stakes were high for failure in every aspect of his life. Wammy had said he would be pushed to his full potential, that being a detective was dangerous. Being around the strange and violent kids was probably just a taste of the hazards involved with being a part of justice. It was probably some kind of test. If he could coexist with _those_ kids, Wammy would see that he has enough courage and stamina to move on to the next test.

Silently, in his dark room, Matt vowed to overcome every obstacle that he was faced with. If he did, he knew he would be able to come face to face with the man in the hat. He would find the murderer.

--M--

He spent the rest of the day in near solitude, avoiding the other kids as much as they avoided him. He didn't want to see them casting sideways glances or whispering behind their hands at him. Matt had taken his schedule, and searched out where his classes would be, knowing that he didn't want to get lost on his first day, especially if he had two whole days to prepare for it. He didn't want to slip into class late on his first day, especially when it would be the first time he had several different classes.

So he wandered around the classrooms, noting that the layout was very straightforward. The computer lab was on the first floor with six other classrooms. When he poked his head into them, they all showed off a language or humanities flair, maps and foreign utterances posted on the walls. The second floor held eight classrooms, math and science oriented. The third floor, also with eight classrooms held all the other classes that didn't really fit in the first two floors: art, music, and a few classrooms that didn't have a theme. Matt guessed they were extras used for any other topic that wasn't taught all year.

It took him several hours past lunchtime to realize it was summer, and that meant he shouldn't have to go to school. He was supposed to be on holiday. It was the end of June and he was starting school? Surely if there were only a few weeks left of the Wammy's House school year, Wammy wouldn't make him attend simply to take the end of the year tests. So….

It meant that the old man was going to train him as fast as possible for the life of a detective. Matt felt sure of it, and accepted the idea of a much shorter summer vacation easily. Some things were just vastly more important.

He ate dinner alone, much like he had eaten lunch. Then there was nothing left to do. He knew he was on the eve of some important event—he was going to his first classes the next day. He would be able to judge exactly what Wammy thought his potential was. He wondered if any of the children he had recently been excluded from would be in his classes. It was hard to imagine Wammy would put them in his classes after his words about their immaturity compared to Matt's own, but then again, they were all in the same age group.

Somehow, Matt thought while glancing down at his schedule, he didn't think they'd be taking Latin with him. Or computer science. Physical education, on the other hand, seemed a very likely place for all of them to meet.

Matt retreated back to his own room, sneaking as quietly as he could so he wouldn't run into his floormates. He locked the door behind him, finding it an easy habit to learn, but his thoughts were interrupted by what was already in his room.

His first reaction was to search the dark room for any people who may still be inside. Finding no one, he tried to calm his heartbeat and stop the adrenaline rush that had kicked in. He walked over to his desk, taking off his glasses to get a better look.

The bow was bright red and shiny, a matching ribbon strung around the flat rectangular object. It took several moments for Matt to figure out what it was, because no one he knew had owned a laptop. From what he did know, they were pretty rare and pretty expensive.

He removed the bow and ribbon carefully, but didn't find a card. He knew it was from Wammy anyway. Excitement bubbled up from his stomach as he lifted the screen, found the on button and pressed it firmly.

The screen lit up and Matt squinted reflexively as the machine emitted a low musical hum. A little box appeared in the center of the screen, a rainbow apple inside that and above a little blue loading bar. Words flickered in quick succession above the bar, but it was too fast for him to read. Then the window disappeared and the desktop replaced it, a few startup windows telling him how to set up his preferences and begin working on his new PowerBook G3.

It was nearly midnight when Matt finally closed it up, changed into his pajamas, set his alarm, and found his way to bed.

--M--

_Wow, well that was one helluva chapter. Thanks for reading!! I'm obsessed with this story, so it will definitely NOT fall off the radar EVER, but I do have a buttload of other fics I need to be working on, because I make promises and try my best to keep them. That written, please drop me a review and it'll make me want to write it sooner! This story is like my child and I need to know how it's doing. Like? Not like? Were you scared for Matt? Any thoughts on what's happening? Will happen?? Any thoughts are good thoughts. Thank yous!!_


	5. Chapter 5

Letters

5

--M--

**June 17, 2007**

He hadn't planned on arriving early to their meeting place. He had wanted Mello to think he was doing more with his life than waiting for him. He told himself he wasn't. Matt gulped down that thought and tried to swallow his anxiety along with it.

It didn't work, and moments later he was pacing back and forth between the graffitied brick wall and his duffle bag. He checked his watch. Seven more minutes. Fuck.

His heart was already racing in anticipation and with seven minutes left to go, Matt pondered the possibility of whether he could get a heart attack from this. Now wouldn't _that_ be a nice bit of irony, considering he was trying to chase down the criminal Mello had become. Rejecting the thought of similarities to the self-proclaimed God called Kira, Matt squinted at the nearby entrances, windows and fire escapes for signs of movement. It was unlikely that Mello would come alone, although… the thought of Mello alone made Matt's blood light on fire.

He told his body it shouldn't. Matt had never been sure if Mello had liked _anyone_, despite the handcuffs of lust they had cinched onto each other. But if Mello's utter hatred of Near was any clue, the people Mello had lived with were especially disliked. Matt shouldn't be standing here, waiting with his heart withering in the blaze, for someone like Mello. He fucking knew better, his mind replied, dousing his chest with the cold splash of cold logic; Mello must have changed, likely for the worst. Matt should be wholly jaded. Yet, here he was, ready to take whatever Mello offered in halting strides, hoping with all his smoldering, heart that Mello would be similar to the boy who had left.

The fact that his mind was blissfully clear about the matter only made the matter worse. Icy logic just hissed on the blaze, blistering steam rising to constrict his throat.

He tried to swallow his problems away again, but his mouth was so dry, and a single deep breath was so hard to find. Matt licked his lips, nervously longing for… for Mello's bare skin to slide against his. Would he still dress himself in all black, the rest of him ghostly pale from hiding?

God, he couldn't be thinking of that right now. He fumbled with his jeans' pocket, pulling out his lighter and the half-empty pack of cigarettes. Good thing he had another unopened pack of his cancer-inducing addiction in his bag. Yeah, he may be a pessimist about his habit sometimes, but it was far too late to change now, and having some kind of obsession was better than none. Especially when he needed it to ease his anxiety. Cupping the end against a non-existent breeze, Matt lit the drug and inhaled.

Did it help? Not really. Or not yet, he persuaded himself, taking another breath of the sweetly smoky fragrance.

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes left, ticking away like the unavoidable pulse of Time, more inexorable and slower-paced than Matt's heartbeat.

Two minutes before he saw the love of his life.

--M--

"_As the sun shines through, it pushes away and pushes ahead,_

_Fills the warmth of blue, and leaves a chill instead,_

_And I didn't know that I could be so blind to all that is so real,_

_As illusion dies, I see there is so much to be revealed."_

**June 21, 1998**

Matt was outside. It was bright and hot, and he was seriously regretting his afternoon decision to explore, as well as to wear a shirt with long sleeves. He should have stayed inside playing solitaire like he had all morning, even though it had been nice and cool inside the chapel, the first place he had visited after roast dinner. But being Sunday, he hadn't wanted to disturb the worshippers and had left before inspecting every nook and cranny. Now heading towards the sun to find the firing range, his glasses were of little help. The blinding light passed right between his nose and the lenses in the small cracks of the poorly fitted accessories. It then spilled into his eyes, a penetrating glare from an angry late-afternoon sun.

He pushed his glasses up further onto his face, hoping to block out more sun, and as he did so, Matt noticed someone approaching him. A thin, tall figure dressed completely in what looked like white pajamas with wild-looking black hair. It took Matt a moment to realize it was the teenager from his first day who he'd caught staring at him so openly. He wore a slight frown on his face and it didn't look like he'd noticed Matt yet. Matt's feet drifted to a halt, his attention caught by the strange young man. His hands lifted to his face, adjusting his glasses for a better view. He knew he shouldn't stare, but he found he couldn't help it.

Suddenly, the black haired youth halted, his head tilting more than turning to peer at Matt. On anyone else, the effect would have been frightening, but instead, the move was comical, the older boy's black eyes wide and curious.

"Hello," he said, holding out a thin hand to Matt. The corners of the teenager's lips turned upwards, as if he were merely copying someone else's attempt at a smile.

Matt pushed up his glasses, hiding his eyes, before reaching out and receiving the proffered hand. "Hi," he said quietly, unsure of what else he could say. They shook, once, and then released, the older boy's cool fingers picking at Matt's hand as if it were a conductor's baton before a grand performance.

"You are Matt, aren't you." The teen's intonation was utterly flat and monotone. It sounded as though his vocal chords couldn't fight their way out of the wet-paper inflection of a question bag if he wanted. Despite this, Matt could tell the words had been meant to be a statement. Matt nodded, feeling awkward, and then realized the movement only made his glasses slip down again. He pushed them back up without missing the strange teenager's eyes following his fingers. Almost imperceptively, the black eyes narrowed, but then the teenager was looking sideways and away from Matt. His spiky bangs hung in front of his face, pushing most of it into shadow, with the sun behind him. "I am Lawrence."

Lawrence was weird, Matt decided conclusively, but definitely interesting and quite friendly. His strange mannerisms made it hard not to like him. Matt smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Lawrence."

"I…" Lawrence's eyes rolled across Matt to look in the other direction, before he finished quickly, "…have something for you, but I did not expect to see you yet. Wait here."

Lawrence bounded off towards Building A in a strange, loping run resembling a wounded dinosaur. Despite his confusion of the situation, Matt was curious and nearly giddy. He realized it was the first human contact he'd had since speaking with Wammy the day before. And Lawrence wanted to give him something. A dark thought flickered across his suspicious mind as he waited; what if Lawrence's 'gift' was spiteful? Matt swatted the stray thought away, wanting to trust the bizarre, yet friendly older boy. Lawrence looked as if he would have his own problems fitting in….

And it clicked beautifully. The L on the door of the fourth floor hallway stood for Lawrence. The only question that remained was why none of the other children had spoken of him like they had of Mello, Near, and Orphan. Lawrence did seem to be older than Matt had judged the voices of the morning before; perhaps his age excluded him from the gossip of children below his peer group?

It was hard to miss the dinosaur on his return, pajamas flapping like white flags in the hopes of surrender. Matt noticed he was barefoot and tried to remember if he had been wearing shoes or socks earlier. He didn't think he had. Lawrence held something in one claw close to his chest, but it wasn't until he stopped, rounding his shoulders after the effort, and held it out between a cautious thumb and forefinger that Matt saw what his gift was.

A small black elastic band connected two chrome circles, catching the setting sun enough to nearly blind Matt. Snugly entrenched within the circles were orange lenses, only a bit bigger than his own eyes. Anticipation rose within Matt's heart, and he wondered if the orange would be dark enough.

"This is yours." Lawrence said plainly, eyes rolling away as his head tilted slightly and his lower lip pushing out almost like a pout. It perhaps as close to shy and embarrassed as his facial features would allow.

Matt took the goggles reverently. He'd considered wearing goggles before, but he'd never found any that would fit his small face, and instead they'd always pushed uncomfortably against his cheeks and made him resemble some kind of walking Cestrian fish. It didn't help that the only kind that _did_ fit were cheap plastic swimwear and had no sun-blocking capabilities.

The tacky plastic aviator glasses came off easily, green eyes closed as he fitted his new lenses over them, the elastic stretching into his hair. It was almost shocking that it felt so comfortable, the bits of foam molding between his face and the chrome frames. How had Lawrence known?

Matt opened his eyes, his world tinted a blissful soft orange. Directly in front of him stood Lawrence, a hint of uncertainty running along the white-orange slope of his shoulders. The teenager was perched almost to the point of rocking forward onto his nose, obviously hoping the present was well-received.

Matt's face broke into a grin, unable to help himself, and he took two steps forward to throw his arms around Lawrence. The teenager didn't seem to know quite what to do, holding perfectly still for a moment, before returning the hug tentatively.

"Thank you," Matt told him sincerely, the delight evident in his voice. Breaking away from the embrace, Matt could see that Lawrence was wearing his funny little smile again, looking quite pleased with himself.

"You are welcome, Matt," Lawrence replied, his smile holding out for a moment into the silence afterwards before he pursed his lips. A bit of his white teeth flashed as he chewed on his lower lip and looked sideways into the distance. His gaze suddenly returned to Matt, a strange mix of intensity and boredom wrapped into one neat package. "I have to go to work now."

"Oh," Matt heard himself say. The likelihood that Lawrence lived behind the lettered door dropped like a pigeon after a falcon had made its deadly acquaintance. Lawrence probably didn't even live here, but was just some local student doing community service at an orphanage. "Goodbye, then."

Lawrence nodded, showed off his quirky smile, and then struck off across the lawn towards the administration building. Matt watched him go through orange-colored goggles, and wondered when or if they'd ever meet again. Then he turned and walked out to the firing range. The lure of guns were highly attractive to boys of all ages, especially young ones who didn't know how to use them. Matt was no exception.

--M--

The five-acre open field had an enormous fence around it, complete with warning signs posted every ten feet along it. Matt found the signs amusing, one stick figure holding a rifle and wearing earmuffs, the other rocking backwards as if shot and little movement lines radiating from an invisible stomach wound. Unfortunately, the signs also mentioned that the range was only open between 10:00 AM and 4:30 PM and children under fourteen years of age were not allowed to participate. All those meeting the age requirement could only use the pellet guns under adult supervision.

Apparently, the adult supervisors were sticklers for the rules too, because as Matt arrived, a boy who looked to be roughly his own age was sent outside the gates. It was obvious that he had been trying to sneak in during the off hours, the current time being a little after 5:00. Matt kept away from the scene, deciding to wander off across the lawns on his own rather than being caught up in someone else's problems.

Hoping to avoid everyone else, Matt waited until just before the cafeteria closed before eating supper. He wolfed down his curry and favored apple juice alone, while a last group of children finished eating at the other end of the room. It left Matt feeling lonely and suspicious that they were talking about him. What would be Matt's trademark taunt here? He knew he shouldn't care, but he didn't know which was worse: the children who did cast the occasional glance in his direction, or the ones who didn't look at him at all. In a moment of self-consciousness, Matt pulled his goggles down to lie around his neck and left them there as he squinted his way back to the fourth floor.

The hallway was as empty as he'd ever seen it, and for that, he was grateful. He still didn't know what to expect from his floormates, and wasn't sure he ever wanted to find out. Locating the M door on the left side, Matt paused in front of it to fish out his key. As he did so, he caught a bit of movement from the previously deserted hallway from the corner of his eye.

A teenage girl was present at the other end, staring at the blank door in front of her. A crimson flower pattern blossomed across the front and shoulders of her t-shirt, her golden hair cascading down to her the middle of her back. In profile, she looked as if she had walked out of a fashion magazine. Even at age eight and never having found anyone particularly attractive, Matt could tell she would be termed nothing less than beautiful.

Was this Orphan? Somehow Matt couldn't see the bratty voice from the morning before belonging to this girl. She seemed more like she belonged with Veronica and Cassandra, the teenagers Wammy had chastised his first day at the orphanage. Her nails were painted like theirs had been. Scarlet. And she certainly looked nothing like a crazy cat girl.

The girl glanced in the opposite direction and Matt looked away before she checked his side of the hallway. His room key was suddenly highly interesting, and he inserted it into the lock with a slight click. She didn't inspire fear like the as-yet-faceless Mello, but she was older and beautiful and thus intimidating. He didn't want to be embarrassed by being caught staring, but unable to help himself, Matt's eyes tore away from the doorknob and presented him a view of the hallway.

The completely empty hallway.

Confused, Matt left his door ajar as a ready escape and crept quickly down the abandoned hall. There weren't many places for the girl to go, except inside one of the rooms. But Matt had been under the impression that besides the rooms with the lettered doors, none had occupants.

A sudden chill ran up Matt's spine, spiraling in and out of his nerves, leaving a quiet feeling of dread in its wake. Something… wasn't right. He couldn't describe it better than a feeling of… wrongness. It settled into his stomach, heavy and foreboding. It was the way the too-bright sunlight streamed through the windows catching the floating dust motes. Instead of tranquility, it presented a scene of deathly stillness with a pinch of loneliness.

Too still, his young detective mind told him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Shouldn't the dust be faintly swirling? The air currents from the girl's passage pushing them into disarray? But… they weren't. He hadn't heard a door open or close either. The stillness and silence seemed hauntingly familiar. They reminded him of his last nights in Chester. They reminded him of—

The hallway seemed to expand and contract on him, and Matt felt a wave of vertigo nearly throw him violently to the floor before he caught himself and realized he hadn't moved. Something was… unnatural. The air began to constrict in his lungs, a coldness seeping through the summer warmth, as the adrenaline shot through his system.

Wild-eyed without his new goggles in place, Matt ran back to his room. He threw the door shut behind him and heaved his weight against it. He was shaking, his mouth dry, but he couldn't comprehend the reasons for his physical reactions. He didn't know where the girl had gone, but that shouldn't have been as terrifying as Matt had experienced. It was a sensation more like an eerie feeling of abnormality than any concrete logic, yet his mind and body couldn't shake it. Fortunately, the darkness in his room was soothing and he found himself taking deeper, slower breaths. Carefully because of twitching fingers, Matt locked his door, and then changed rapidly into his pajamas, pulling the orange lenses from Lawrence over his head and placing them on the nightstand as a prized possession.

He climbed under the covers despite the summer heat, needing something to guard him from his fears. Less exposed, he checked his alarm to make sure it was set correctly, the mundane task calming him more than the darkness itself. His schedule lay next to his goggles, symbols of Matt's new home and world. It was a dream-life complete with a way to see laid out in front of him. He was getting everything he wanted, things he hadn't even thought to ask for. He let his remaining tension flee away in a feeling of excitement for his new life, realizing with a rush that it was actually working out. Here he was, taking control of his future, newly comfortable in the light of day, and things were good.

The thought halted Matt's mind. His parents and Blair Rose had been murdered not even a week ago, and here Matt was already thinking that _things were good?_ What kind of person was he? Accepting the material gains in his life as a measurement of his happiness… was he really that shallow? That callous? Would Blair Rose just fade away into a faint rosy memory? Would he forget the faces of his own parents? Guilt gripped him in the dark, choking out a dry sob. No, he couldn't be happy yet. Not with the man in the hat still out there, still getting away with his sins. Matt would not allow himself to be happy until Justice had been wrought. He exhaled shakily, before tears could begin forming in the corners of his eyes. It was okay. He could accept the material things in his life as keys to his goal, the open pathway that would lead to Justice and the death of the man with the hat.

--M--

**June 22, 1998**

Matt dressed quickly, pulling out his red and black stripes, and fitting his goggles neatly on his head. It was 8:00 am, and he needed to make sure he had time to stick breakfast where his butterflies were before finding his way to a Latin class.

The redhead unlocked and opened the door. At the same moment, the door to his right labeled with a gothic N opened, a blond boy in black dragging out someone who could only be described as albino by the hand.

"Hurry up, Near, I want to get the lime yogurt before—" The blond boy stopped tugging at the pale hand, his mouth hanging open, and his cherubic face staring at Matt.

"You're the other M?" he asked guardedly, blue eyes darting to the letter emblazoned on the door near Matt's head. Matt nodded, the shock of the unexpected meeting enough for his fear of Mello and Near to have not yet kicked in.

"I'm Matt."

"I don't care," Mello said, nearly cutting him off and jerking on Near's hand again. Mello resumed the process of ushering Near to the stairs. With his back turned, Matt recognized Mello as the boy from the day before who had been trying to sneak into the firing range. He was still wearing the same black cotton outfit. Near, however, looked strangely like Lawrence, contrasting Mello with white pajamas that only accented his stark paleness. Except Near wore socks, Matt noted vaguely as the two disappeared down the stairs, his mind still wobbling to process the sensory information his eyes and ears had given him.

It was odd, wasn't it? Contrary to everything Matt had heard, Mello had been completely calm. Uncivil and rude to be sure, but in those icy blue eyes, Matt had seen nothing to be afraid of. Maybe there was something else going on, but it had even looked like Mello was _helping_ Near get down to breakfast.

They had looked… like friends.

Hope blossomed like a late flower inside Matt's chest. Wammy had said this was where he would fit in, and while he hadn't gotten a warm greeting of any kind from either of the other boys, he held his faith with the old man. At least they had never pretended to be friendly like the other children. Perhaps they were simply more honest?

"You must be the other M," a girl's voice spoke knowledgably from behind him, making Matt jump. He hadn't noticed the O door open and close behind him.

He turned quickly, finding Orphan to be shorter than his own height and quite petite. She was also of a nationality that Matt couldn't place immediately, her skin and eyes like brown sugar, her long straight hair in ponytails behind her ears, and a maroon circle between her eyes, marking her with an exotic flair.

He tried again, holding out his hand this time. "I'm Matt."

"Orphan," she replied, grasping his hand and giving it a quick, business-like shake. Her palm was soft and warm in his grasp, the fact surprising him, although of course it was to be expected. "You going to eat breakfast?"

"Yeah," Matt answered, wondering if she was offering to walk with him there. She seemed really friendly, something Matt was simultaneously grateful for and suspicious of.

"Then c'mon," she said, brushing past Matt and striding purposefully for the stairs. Matt followed, his nose itching enough to make him sneeze as he reached the top of the stairs. Orphan ignored his outburst, hurrying onward so that Matt had to take the stairs two at a time to catch up with her.

They didn't speak on the way to the refectory; Matt was too afraid to say anything that would drive his only chance at friendship away. Once inside the building, Matt followed Orphan along the line, sliding his tray behind hers.

Robert stepping into line behind him, his hair still mussed from sleep or perhaps on purpose to instigate laughter among his friends. Their eyes met for a second, rebounding through Matt's goggles, before Robert dropped them to gather up a tray and silverware. The tension between them was palpable to Matt's extreme discomfort, the silence between them thicker than the baked beans he was loading onto his plate. Matt found he wanted to say something, but no words came to his lips, and just as he glanced up into the eyes of his former friend, Orphan elbowed him and tugged on his sleeve.

The gesture wasn't lost on either Robert or Matt. Their lives were entirely separate now, a fact that Matt realized both Orphan and Robert silently agreed upon. Thinking about everything that had transpired, Matt realized it was a theory the entire orphanage subscribed to. The children of the fourth floor kept to themselves, a disconnected faction of the Wammy's House, and the rest of the children were free to do as they pleased amongst themselves as well. They didn't socialize with each other and it seemed everyone but Matt was happy that way.

Without any other option, Matt followed Orphan to the table the furthest away. He tried hard not to let his anxiety show on his face as he approached both Mello and Near. It didn't help when Mello stopped speaking to watch Matt approach from under his straight-cut bangs. Near, on the other hand, looked entirely disinterested and played absentmindedly with a sausage on his plate. Orphan seemed oblivious to the obvious display of rejection, greeting both of them with an obnoxious "happy Monday" as she sat down.

There was a moment of silence as Matt took a place next to her, but then Mello resumed eating and Matt felt as if he had been suddenly released from invisible netting.

"So," Orphan began casually towards the opposite side of the table, "I hope you know you two are going down on the Latin test."

Mello snorted derisively. "As if."

Near made no response, and Matt wondered if the boy had even heard Orphan's challenge. Wait… Latin test? Matt had Latin first period….

"Am I in the same classes as all of you?" Matt asked, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He felt like he already knew the answer, and it was shaped like a piece of paper with incomprehensible Latin phrases all over it.

"Not for long if you ask stupid questions like that," Mello answered arrogantly between sips of hot chocolate. "Which is just fine for the rest of us. You'll only get in my way."

Matt wanted to turn to Orphan and ask whether he would be required to take the test with them, even though he hadn't learned any of the material, but that would mean… that would mean Mello would only get another shot at proving his superiority.

And suddenly, Matt didn't want to give Mello that chance. He wanted to prove that he wasn't stupid, that he wasn't going to get in Mello's way, unless it was for stepping on his pretty blond head as he vaulted past him. Whatever Mello's problems were, Matt would rise above them; he had bigger fish to fry.

Near looked up then, his black eyes peering at Mello. "It's time to go to class."

Mello nodded once, gulping down the rest of his hot chocolate, and rose. Near did the same, a few fingers curling into his hair as he padded after the taller boy. With a final bite of fried bread, Orphan stood and flipped her ponytails back over her shoulders before setting off.

M, N, O…. Matt watched as they filed out in order, and wondered how and where an extra M would fit into the letters of the Wammy alphabet.

--M--

* * *

_Well, I love this story and my beta who worked my ass off in making this good enough for all of you to read. Let me know your thoughts in the form of a review? Click the button, please, this story is my child and I work really hard, but it seems like nobody's reading it (besides people who I know personally and I love you guys for reading!!)... which makes me sad._

_And this is something that I've been meaning to do, but keep forgetting to put into my little author notes at the end. You know how I put in those little italicized parts? Yeah, those are song lyrics. So, for whoever knows what songs (title and artist) the italicized parts are from, I will give a Matt cookie. Trust me, you want one because the goggles are made of frosting. Good luck!_


	6. Chapter 6

**This chapter is dedicated to Kismet. Luffles to you, little one.**

Letters

6

--M--

**June 17, 2007**

Two hours.

Matt ground the butt of his last cigarette into the concrete with a toe, pushing it into alignment with the rest.

Two long hours.

He didn't know whether that made him pathetic or loyal. He didn't know which was worse. He didn't really want to find out.

Two bleak hours.

Tired. He was numb, all hope finally drained. All thoughts of reliability had slowly dwindled and honor had never been present in the boy Mello had been… so why would he have expected it in the man?

Two heartbreaking hours.

He shouldn't be feeling this way. He shouldn't have let himself become so anxious before he had even seen the guy. It shouldn't have left him so sapped of strength. It should have been different, so different, and yet the problem was that he wasn't surprised with the outcome. What he really should have done was simply expect it.

Two fucking hours.

It had taken two hours before Matt had let himself believe that Mello wasn't coming.

He gave the alley one last glance through orange-colored lenses, the sun setting magnificently behind the old warehouse, and turned his boots away. If Mello did bother to show up somehow, someday, he would know that Matt had waited for him by the cigarette butts on the ground. In his frustration and boredom, Matt had spelled it out in the trash he was leaving behind:

TWO HOURS.

--M--

"_I waited for you today, but you didn't show._

_No. No. No._

_I needed you today, so where did you go?_

_I cried out with no reply, and_

_I can't feel you by my side, so_

_I'll hold tight to what I know,_

_You're here and I'm never alone."_

**July 23, 1998**

Matt woke up, and wondered where he found the energy to crawl out of bed. Pounding a small fist on his alarm clock to shut it up, Matt stumbled to his wardrobe in the dark, still half asleep.

The day before had been… more exhausting than he had ever imagined. His classes were hard, and his teachers expected him to perform at the level of Mello, Near, and Orphan, and they had been studying the topics diligently for several weeks already. Matt hadn't even tried to answer any questions on the Latin test he had been given—he didn't _know_ any Latin. It was frustrating; wasn't the point that his teacher was supposed to be _teaching_ him the language?

The rest of the day hadn't gotten any better; it had slumped into a downward spiral of frustration and jealousy. He only had classes with the other three children and to Matt's goggled eyes, they were like a team of synchronized swimmers. They all seemed to understand the material and what was expected of them. Matt didn't. He felt more like he'd fallen ungracefully off the high dive, only to flounder in the chlorine.

After the long day culminating in running laps around the firing range in the summer heat, Matt had retreated back to his room, feeling exhausted mentally and physically. It was only then that he remembered Wammy's words about the difficulties and the challenges. At the time, Matt had never imagined his challenges would be like this. Despite that, Matt knew he had been warned and couldn't bring himself to blame the old man. Wammy had tried to tell him; Matt just had been too full of himself to understand the implications.

He had felt older, sitting there in his darkened room, absently playing solitaire. He had lost something that day, without really understanding what it was he was missing, and with a certain jaded heaviness, Matt knew he would only continue to lose whatever it was.

Because he wasn't about to give up. No, Matt knew that that was what the others, even Orphan, secretly hoped. It had been apparent in English when the rest of them had spoken in a perfect Standard American English dialect. When he had been with the other children on his first day, his Scouse accent had been a source of slight amusement, but not enough to ostracize him. Among his three new classmates, he was ridiculed for not comprehending the slight speech differences right away. It was downright embarrassing when both Mello and Orphan hinted that their first, and even second languages hadn't been English, yet they both spoke it better than Matt did. Well, Mello hadn't hinted… he had brandished the information in Matt's face like a red-hot iron. It hurt and Matt hated the other children at that moment, as much as he realized that they were the first peers who shared his same cursed intelligence.

The rollicking emotions of rivalry—especially with Mello who seemed to take Matt's existence as a personal insult—allowed Matt to use the acerbic oil to fuel his fire for competing and beating them. All of them. Matt had taken it upon himself to find the library in the basement of Building B and check out all the suggested reading materials for his classes for the summer. He had also spoken privately with the English teacher to find himself a speech therapist, despite the embarrassment of asking. He had spent the majority of the night pouring over study books and solitaire, sometimes simultaneously doing both.

Which was why he was now blearily eyeing the door, hoping he wouldn't run into his classmates as soon as he stepped out into the hallway. He had woken up feeling stuffy after studying in bed, the dust from the books leaving his tongue feeling thick. He could wait until Tuesday's first class of geography and politics to interact with _those kids, _right?

Goggles strapped on to protect him from the advances of light, Matt shrugged his shoulders back and pushed open the door.

The hallway was empty, until he closed his door and found Orphan standing directly behind it. Matt's shoulders slumped in response; he hadn't wanted to walk with anyone except himself down to breakfast. Orphan's constant presence, while friendly, was not conducive to Matt's morning. Through his groggy sleepiness, Matt forced himself to recall that he didn't want to push away his only friend… even if he was tired and cranky.

"Hey," she said by way of greeting, bright and cheery. Something gave off a questioning feline chirp and Matt's eyes were drawn to what she was holding in her arms. Orphan held up the cat, and Matt realized it was a lot smaller than he had first believed. Underneath the mass of silky white and grey fur, it looked more like a kitten than a full grown cat. The small pet blinked at Matt, its coloring giving the impression of black eyeliner around green-blue eyes. "This is Kismet."

Matt's slow simmering anger from the day before gradually melted away. Kismet was serene and commanding, her paws perched over Orphan's forearm, imperiously letting Matt know it was okay to pet her. Matt reached out a hand and gently petted the top of Kismet's head, eliciting a small _mraw?_ from the animal. Orphan giggled, and Matt found himself joining in as Kismet began purring, stretching her head and neck to get the full effect of Matt's ministrations. The soft mass of fur rumbled under his fingers, almost tickling him.

"Do you want to hold her?" Orphan asked, shifting the cat into a more accessible position.

Matt hesitated before responding, and his answer reflected his insecurity, "Okay?"

His parents had never kept pets more than two fish at a time in an aquarium when he had been younger, but they had never seemed to last very long. Matt had usually been the one to find the fish floating upside down in the tank despite the changes in pH levels, fish foods, and water temperatures the family had tried without any luck. Eventually his parents had given up, emptied the water, and sold the aquarium. Knowing his own bad luck with pets, Matt decided to err on the side of caution with one of Orphan's prized animals. He didn't want to drop Kismet, even though he knew cats were all supposed to land on their feet. Matt figured he should at least warn Orphan of his lack of knowledge on the matter. "But I've never held a cat before."

"Oh, that's fine," Orphan told him cheerfully. "Here, hold her with one hand under her and the other around her. Like this."

Orphan demonstrated with exaggerated movements, and Kismet tolerated the explanation while retaining an air of aloofness and boredom throughout the whole affair. Matt held out his arms to try, and Orphan deposited Kismet firmly into them, just as Matt found himself ready to sneeze. Unable to wipe at his nose while fragilely cradling Kismet, Matt settled for wiggling it. Orphan burst out laughing, her childlike guffaws echoing down the hallway.

The N door opened, a tuft of white hair poking out from behind it. A single black eye was visible, shaded by hair, and caught next to the dark wood. Matt would have thought Near was curious as to why Orphan was laughing, except that no emotion registered on his pale face. Orphan's laughter slowly began to down, but Matt forgot he was trying not to sneeze.

The sound of his nose trumpeting, and the reflexive twitch of his head and shoulders startled the purring cat out of his arms. When he opened his eyes, Matt could tell that even Near had jumped back into his room a ways. Orphan, on the other hand, was laughing again. Kismet was hiding behind her thin legs, giving Matt a guarded glare that said plainly that he was never to hold her again.

"I'm going to breakfast," Near announced quietly, and he exited the room. Near locked his door, and then Matt noticed his unsteady footfalls towards the stairs, one foot not quite pulling up at the same speed as the other. He hadn't noticed it the day before, not with Mello dragging him along, although now, looking back, Matt realized that Near's gait _had_ been uneven. The redhead had automatically assumed that it was Mello's tugging that caused it.

"Wait for me!" Orphan shouted, whirling around to scoop up Kismet and replace the cat inside her room. Near made no response, grabbing the railing as he proceeded to make his way down the stairs. Matt began to follow, but then stopped and quickly went back to lock his door.

Near and Orphan had just reached the first landing and turned the corner, when Mello's door opened, the blond locking it furtively behind him. His eyes landed on Matt, and narrowed, but he quickly turned them along with his feet to Near's door.

"Near's on the stairs," Matt blurted out suddenly, wondering why he had spoken. It wasn't like he had an obligation to be nice to Mello. Dressed all in black again, Mello twisted around, his face pale and pinched, and blue eyes on the redhead as he walked past. Matt kept his goggles pointed forward, not daring to look at him.

It was like having a pack of wolves follow him, Matt decided upon striking out for the refectory. Mello stalked him all the way there, staying at least ten feet behind, but never exactly the same distance and never directly behind him. It was completely unnerving, and Matt had to resist the urge to keep checking behind for the exact location of his rival.

At least, Matt concluded, the older blond was behind him, even if it was simply literally. It gave Matt hope that soon perhaps, Matt would be ahead in what he was beginning to see as a serious competition.

--M--

"Where you going, Matt?"

Orphan looked up at him curiously, as if he were breaking some kind of lunchtime tradition. Which, he supposed, he probably was.

He didn't really want to tell the truth about it, but knew that his classmates would figure it out soon anyway. If it had been one of them, Matt knew he would have solved the mystery.

"I'm going to see Mr. Gage." This statement caught the attention of the rest of the table. Mello was watching him like a cat that has spotted a mouse, and Near stopped playing with his food. Forrest Gage was the English teacher and had agreed to help Matt as a speech and language therapist to control his accent. Matt was also secretly hoping Mr. Gage could teach him how to fake others… he remembered Sebastien's thick French and the laughs it had created. His mind wandered a bit as he wondered whether Orphan or Near would find it as entertaining… could Near even laugh?

"You left something in English?" Orphan questioned. English class had been at 9:30, second period, even though it had been the last class before lunch—fourth period—the day before. Class times switched everyday in a pattern that Matt knew would take some getting used to, but he felt that it would keep him from getting too set in a single routine.

"No," Matt replied, hoping they wouldn't ask further questions while knowing they would.

"What are you doing?" Matt could hear Mello's narrowed eyes in his voice even before he glanced over to meet the accusing glare. Matt's insides suddenly curled up into a defensive ball, his breath short and hot, and he suddenly didn't want to tell Mello—no, any of them—what he was doing and where he was going. It would only mean he'd be mocked sooner.

"Leaving."

--M--

**June 25, 1998**

"_Achoo!_"

Matt wiped at his nose with a sleeve. Orphan laughed, both of them sitting outside in the shade behind the church. She had brought out three cats with them, saying that it was important for their health that they get outside sometimes. Inwardly, Matt doubted the truth of her words because he had heard of indoor cats, but supposed that Orphan probably knew more than he did about felines. Currently, Kismet was prowling through some shrubbery, and Orphan had explained proudly that the grey and white cat was quite the huntress. Matt, however, hoped that he wouldn't have to see any dead mouse pieces before supper. Beowulf, a larger grey-striped male, skittered across the lawn in bursts of speed, stopping to lurk in the grass or pounce on fallen leaves. Orphan's other pet General was a mass of orange fur shaped vaguely like an enormous American football with paws and a tail. He sat on the other side of his mistress, stretched out to fully appreciate the shade. Orphan petted him absentmindedly, then turned to Matt.

"You sneeze a lot, don't you?"

Matt felt his cheeks heat up. "Not really."

"Yes, you do," Orphan insisted in her typical fashion, sure of herself and oblivious to Matt's discomfort.

"It's only when you're around," Matt replied defensively, not realizing the absolute truth of the statement until he had spoken. It _was_ only when he was with Orphan that Matt sneezed and his eyes itched and he had the vague sense that his throat was coated with dust. It was like….

If he were a doctor, he'd probably diagnose himself with allergies. Except, one couldn't be allergic to people, right? But nothing else was constant in his environment when he felt sick except for the girl… and the symptoms were undoubtedly worse the closer she was.

"You know, some cultures believe that when you sneeze, it means someone is talking about you behind your back," Orphan continued, still unaware of Matt's inner turmoil. "I bet it's Mello. He hates you especially, said you're a gormless piece of shite, you know."

"Yeah, I know…" Matt said casually, even though he hadn't. Now with the possibility of being allergic to Orphan swimming through his head along with the ever-present threat that was Mello, Matt wondered what bizarre singularity would prevent him from being friends with Near… besides Near's obvious lack of emotions. After four days of classes and meals with the albino, Matt had never seen the younger boy smile. Although somehow, Mello and Near continued to stay close together, their peculiar relationship excluded anyone else so that Matt and Orphan only had each other.

"What was it like before I got here?" Matt asked suddenly.

Orphan peered at him closely, her dark honey eyes searching his. "You're wondering why you're here?"

"No," Matt replied assuredly, "I know why I'm here. It's just… what?"

Orphan was raising an eyebrow as if she didn't believe him, a serious demeanor on her delicate face. "_Do_ you know why you're here? Because I get the impression that you really don't. Wammy didn't tell you, did he?"

"Of course he told me," Matt retorted. Wammy had told him about becoming a detective and keeping secrets. Matt knew he was going to be a great force of Justice by the time normal children moved into junior high, if not before. It was obvious that the other three had the same goals, and insulting that Orphan thought he was the only one who hadn't been clued in. Wammy trusted Matt, just as Matt trusted the aging caretaker.

"Oh, don't worry, he didn't tell us right away either… I mean, it's not something you can tell just anybody. And I think he kind of rushed it because of Mello… not that that did any good, really. Quite the contrary, as I think Mello only got worse. But once you actually got here—another M—I think the message got across, you know?" Orphan shifted her gaze off Matt halfway through in favor of watching General, the cat rolling over on his side and pushing his face into Orphan's palm. Matt got the sense that Orphan was testing him somehow, but he couldn't quite decipher what she was talking about. Doubt sidled up to his tapestry of perceived truth, tugging playfully at the threads.

"Everyone thought Mello was going to be expelled because he was violent," Matt stated, knowing he needed Orphan to think he understood everything she was talking about before he could get to his real questions. Even though she sounded like she was talking in vague riddles, Matt could follow her words, albeit clumsily. Something had happened to Mello, though, when Matt had arrived at the House. Matt was some kind of message? But it didn't make sense; it was obvious that Mello hated Matt, so why would the redhead's arrival make the blond _less_ violent? His mind whirred, trying to put it all together, but not only was he missing pieces of the puzzle, he also had no clue what kind of mosaic he was trying to build. He felt another sneeze coming, tickling the edges of his nostrils.

"Well, _yeah_, he was violent," Orphan emphasized as if he were stupid, "Even the regs knew that."

Matt had picked up on the slang used to describe the rest of children at the orphanage earlier in the week. They were _regs_ because they were the regular children of the House. To the regs, Matt was one of _those_ children. Matt frowned, but holding back his sneeze only helped his eyes itch and water. He slid a finger under his goggles to wipe his eyes as he spoke. "What did he do?"

Orphan shrugged, an unusual gesture for discussing Mello's violence, Matt decided. She looked down to General, and for the first time, her voice was tinged with bitterness. "What _didn't_ he do is a better question."

"Never mind," Matt muttered quickly before he sneezed painfully. It was too bad he was allergic to Orphan, he thought darkly, wiping his nose and squinting against his watery eyes. She was the only one he could nearly call a friend.

--M--

**July 8, 1998**

Blair Rose should have been five years old today. If she had lived. It wasn't fair.

Matt lay on his bed, his goggles pushed onto his forehead. His eyes were focused on the ceiling, but he wasn't seeing it. Matt was looking inwards, down to where his own heart lay caged away from reality. The bars were made of his own anger and vengeance, the cold air surrounding him wrought from how he had distanced himself. The key… unbidden from within the prison came as a giggling girl, blond ponytails swinging as she unlocked and freed Matt's broken heart. Nothing was fair, really. Matt wiped at the tears spilling into his goggles, his face passive and silent but for their slow trickle. His family was really dead, and they certainly hadn't deserved it.

And the constables Seaver and Brinkley weren't anywhere closer. In fact, Matt suspected the two weren't even working on the case anymore. No progress had been made, no movement forward. No information about the man with the hat. But neither were the constables willing to let Matt get involved.

"It's a grown-up thing, you see?" Seaver had said over the phone, sounding like he was distracted and the little orphan boy was wasting his time. Matt had almost wanted to hang up on him and his 'grown-up' notions. If it wasn't for the fact they were the detectives on the case….

"Blair…" he choked out, curling up to protect himself from the sobs now beginning to wrack his body. The little girl didn't reply, and Matt's insides twisted painfully because he knew she never would. "…Rose… you're such a pretty Chester Rose, right? Right?"

Matt plunged deeper into his despair, unable to help himself, half wanting the pain and the grief to wash over him. He deserved to feel this sorrow because he had survived. His family was gone so he was compelled to drown in tears for them. If he didn't, would he forget them? If he stopped crying, would it mean he didn't really care? Would he forever be soulless and emotionless as the emptiness that had found him in the days that followed his loss if he didn't cry here, now, again, and often?

"Mum!" he cried, "Da!" His outbursts echoed back to him in his small room, to leave him surrounded in silence. He was all alone, no one cared, and his family was never coming back. Matt, because he had once been Mail, would always be alone. The normally comforting darkness now seemed to illuminate all the emptiness he possessed inside his heart. His sense of sight blocked, he could believe there was nothing outside of him as well, mirroring what he felt his heart looked like. The blackness, both inside and out, was impenetrable so that Matt couldn't see the end of it. A shudder whipped through his shoulders, along his spine and to his fingertips as a cold acceptance sunk heavily into his mind. It would never end, would it. Alone and in a strange place with people who simultaneously hated him and, worse, showed little interest in him.

Matt lay gasping shakily from the aftermath of his sobs, waiting for something. Anything that would drive away the numbness that began little by little. It crept up, wrapping around him like a cool blanket of fog; its small, wispy tendrils enveloped his soul.

The silence and the minutes dragged on, weighing heavily enough to crush something in Matt's chest. It was slow, like suffocation, but every heartbeat seemed to sink deeper into him, and nothing could stop its deadening progress. The blanket was enclosing him completely, binding Matt to the heartless insensitivity of his present world. He couldn't escape… and found he didn't want to. At least the numbness would be so apparent that everyone would know he was mourning. They would see the deadness mirrored in his eyes and understand that the death of his family had meant something to the little redhead. The length and depth of his grief would prove how wonderful his family had been. Suffocating under the weight of his anguish, Matt gasped for breath as hot tears trailed down his cheeks.

He closed his eyes and his sobs lessened even though he didn't want them to. He should be sadder; his parents and Blair Rose were too precious for him not to cry more. Exhaustion seeped through the invisible blanket, bringing a hazy peace to Matt's body, even as his mind railed against it. He shouldn't let go of the pain, because it meant… it meant he had cared….

"You just don't get it, do you?" the beautiful girl said, a mixture of pity and annoyance painted on her angelic face. Her fine features were framed with long layers of golden hair, her grey-blue eyes the color of a rainy morning. Matt was close to her, so he could see that she was much taller than him, although it only accentuated her outrageous beauty. It was the girl from the hallway but this time, Matt's heart didn't pound in fear of the strangeness; he only felt a distant sense of wonderment. The patterns on her shirt didn't look like flowers anymore either, the jagged scarlet splotches more like drops of wet paint. Or nail polish, he thought, glancing at her matching fingernails. "But if you're one of us, you'll figure it out eventually, huh?"

Matt gave her a confused look. What was she talking about? Figure out what? Matt pondered her words, then belatedly realized she was fading from view. In contrast, the pattern on her shirt grew more distinct, blurring together into a terrifyingly familiar red nightmare. Matt's adrenaline suddenly kicked in ferociously, his heart pumping erratically in terror as he understood what was happening. Everything was dark like his closet and the blood monster was approaching.

Someone shouted harshly, and the sounds of bullets ricocheted across the vast empty space. Matt didn't have time to react, no time to run, to hide. Wet scarlet rose up like a curtain before him, blocking out the darkness behind it with its liquid light. Terrified, Matt could barely make out the silhouette of the man with the hat on the other side of the cascade of blood. Anger surged through his veins suddenly replacing his panic, but as much as Matt wanted to reach the man, it would mean he would have to step through the wall of red liquid, covering himself in what must be the blood of his own family. Frustration battled fury battling fear, tearing an incontrollable howl from his chest.

He woke up sweating, the echo of his cry hanging in the air. Matt gasped and shook, the edges of his nightmare clinging to him like brambles. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep. Matt wondered if his nightmare was punishment for surviving. The sole remaining life of the Jeevas family, Matt was completely alone. Another wave of grief washed over him, as he contemplated once again how his family was gone. He needed to let himself wash away into the breath-catching pain, lose himself to the tender agony of his memories. How Blair Rose had been determined to follow him to school one day. How his father always smelled of paint. How his mother had made him lunches every morning, packing up his box of apple juice. Maybe they weren't quite gone if he simply kept remembering them and focused on nothing else… maybe then he wouldn't be so alone.

Suddenly, the door opened and light streamed in around a tall figure in the doorway. Matt shrank away from the terrible image, reminiscent of his nightmare, before his tear-blurred eyes caught Wammy's worried expression. Matt shut them against the glare from the hallway and fumbled for his goggles. Placing them on his head, he heard the heavy footsteps reach the bedside and then Wammy picked up Matt gently as if he were a precious doll and hugged the boy to his chest.

"You don't have to bear it alone, my boy," he said, petting Matt's auburn hair. Matt stifled a sob at the words. How had Wammy known his exact thoughts? And at the right moment, he had said the right words…. More tears spilled out, soaking into the soft cushion of his goggles, but these tears felt cleansing, and Matt reached the conclusion Wammy had set before him: the House founder would keep Matt from being alone.

Quite suddenly, Matt felt safe again. It was strange how he hadn't even realized he had been so scared until his caretaker held him. He let the feeling wash over him, gentle as surf sliding across a sandy coast, smoothing and eroding away his negative emotions. Wammy was some kind of lifeline to keep Matt from drowning in his sorrow.

"I should have been here sooner, Matt. I'm sorry," Wammy whispered, still gently rocking the boy in his arms. Matt sniffled, trying to shake his head that it wasn't the man's fault, not trusting his voice yet.

"Let me tell you something, my boy," the caretaker began heavily, "Your family is dead, and nothing can change that. But from somewhere—be it heaven or someplace else—they are watching over you. It's because they love you dearly and they want to be sure you're happy. It's never an easy thing to be separated from the ones you love, but the truth is that even when you feel like you're completely alone, someone cares about you."

Matt digested the words, letting them flow through him like a cup of hot chocolate as Wammy held him back a little to look Matt in the face. Matt saw the man smile through orange-tinted lenses, the goggles turning his graying mustache faintly yellow. Wammy's older face held only a hint of sadness for Matt's plight, somehow becoming mischievous. "I'm also one of those people, you know. You're part of my family now, here at the House. When you're here, you're never alone.

"Now go to sleep, my boy." Wammy finished and gently laid Matt down into the covers, pulling them up to the boy's chin. With his tears dried and his heart warmed as a result of Wammy's ministrations and speech, Matt didn't even notice that his goggles were still on his face and he drifted off into the darkness.

He slept soundly.

--M--

_First off, dear readers, I'm sorry for the long delay… yeah, I told a few of you I'd get this up by Sunday and now it's Wednesday. I'll suffice it to say I've been busy. I hope you enjoyed this chapter regardless of its tardiness._

_On another note, this chapter is really painful for me in a way quite different from Matt's. Orphan's cat Kismet really was MY adorable kitty, but between the writing of Kismet's scene and this posting, she passed away (July 24) . Hence, this chapter is dedicated to my fluffy little ball of fur that's no longer with me. Luffles, Kismizzles._

_You know you want to review. Click the button and tell me how cruel I am to do this to Matt. Did I make you cry?_


	7. Chapter 7

Letters

7

----M----

**June 18, 2007**

What did it mean? The question ran rampant through Matt's head, the harsh inflections of the words slicing through his cortex. Mello knew Matt had wanted to meet. He must have known that Matt wanted to help with Mello's side of the Kira case as well as... the other information. So why hadn't he shown up? What was Mello thinking?

_Was_ Mello thinking? Perhaps it was that thought that scared Matt the most: that Mello had stopped caring, stopped considering anyone other than himself. It wasn't too hard to believe it could be true… that Mello had never cared _much_ about anyone, which was probably why Matt feared it. But as much as Mello had hidden his gentler side, Matt had known it existed. A cold and indifferent Mello tore at his heart—the boy he had loved would only exist in his memories.

Then there was the other option. The one that meant that Mello simply didn't want Matt involved, the meaning a firm 'stay away from this shit, you bloody idiot.' But that seemed more unlike Mello than the first choice of callous unfeeling. The blond had never tried to keep Matt out of harm's way; more often than not he had been the one to lead Matt straight into the dragon's jaws. Matt swallowed uneasily, pushing the memories aside.

It was exhausting, trying to weigh the scenarios like a poorly balanced scale. The truth was that Mello either didn't care or didn't want him there, and neither option gave Matt hope. In his mind's eye, the scale broke, the weight of both sides too much for the device to handle.

It looked like Matt would have to do it on his own. The idea dawned slowly, a sunrise creeping over the horizon of consciousness. He would have to expose the truth and bring down the entire institution… alone. He would probably destroy people's lives in the process, but could he live with his conscience if he did nothing? The organization had a terrible flaw.

Just like him. Suddenly, Matt was desperate for a cigarette. He fumbled into his vest pocket, pulling out a pack along with his lighter. Moments later, the nicotine was drifting through his system, calming him. He was just tired, he told himself, trying to convince himself he wasn't a coward, that he could do this, that he didn't need Mello's help, and he sure as hell didn't need Near's help. They were probably more flawed than he was anyway.

Matt glanced to the low coffee table where his laptop sat humming away blissfully unaware of its user's intentions. It was time. The hacker shifted to hunch over the computer, his fingers resting lightly on the keys.

There wouldn't be any turning back once he started. Matt sucked on his cigarette, producing a ragged indrawn gulp of smoke and air. He needed to do this, because if he didn't, no one else would. Even if it meant facing down his old monsters, or that he might be creating new ones. Or that in this Kira-dominated world, he'd be responsible for turning people over to the murderer. People he knew, had spoken with, learned to love.

Another long drag on the cigarette. Matt fought down the insidious panic, shoving aside the feelings where he found his shades of grey. Criminals deserved to be caught, no matter who they were. And he, the detective, needed to produce the evidence against the criminal. That was it. That was all there ever was to his job.

He'd start with Mello. Matt's face twisted into a grim smile even as his throat constricted. It didn't matter; the bastard probably deserved this hack for setting him up at least.

It'd been a long time since he'd hacked the Wammy's House.

----M----

"_You don't like being second,_

_I don't like being wrong,_

_I won't forget the way you made me feel."_

**August 24, 1998**

"_Happy birthday dear Neeeeeaaar_," Matt sang along, trying to drown out Orphan's squawking, which was more disagreeable than his own. "_Happy birthday to you!_"

Near's nonplussed expression continued throughout the whole rendition of "Happy Birthday" and its aftermath, in which Mello still refused to participate in. If it hadn't been Near's birthday, Matt doubted the blond would have even shown up to the festively decorated classroom. Or maybe it was the cake that had brought Mello there?

Matt didn't like thinking about any motivation Mello might have had for coming. It wasn't like Matt had ever figured out any reason for Mello's life's trajectory before… unless making life difficult for Matt was Mello's reason for existence. Singing certainly wasn't Orphan's forte and at least Mello could have helped drown her out for the sake of everyone's ears.

"You're supposed to blow out the candles, Near," Orphan reminded the pale boy. Near sat a few feet from the cake, his bad leg flush against the floor, the other drawn up so that he could rest his head on his knee. He swiveled his dark eyes towards Orphan, the rest of his body remaining motionless. After over two months spent learning to recognize Near's quiet language, Matt could tell it was a look that said Near obviously knew what he was supposed to do already.

Orphan slid the cake tray across the floor to the albino. "And don't forget to make a wish."

Mello, arms crossed and standing in the corner, rolled his eyes. His tone was his usual sarcasm tinged with arrogance. "And what exactly would Near wish for? A brain?"

Near ignored him as was common, leaning forward slightly towards the cake and parting his lips. "I don't need a brain to beat you, Mello."

The smallest boy blew out the seven candles quickly, anticipating Mello's clenching fist and his cry of outrage as he crossed the room heatedly. The candles were still sputtering as he swept up Near by the shirt collar, Mello's wiry strength enough to lift Near off the ground. Near went limp in response, and with their faces inches apart, Mello began shouting. "You're never going to beat me, Near! I'm the number one now, and you'll _never_ be good enough again, you sorry git!"

Matt stuck a finger in his ear while making a face, the universal sign of 'you're-being-too-loud' quite plain. None of them wanted to be reminded of how Mello was currently at the top of their little class.

"C'mon, now, Mello, it's his birthday," Orphan complained.

Suddenly acting quite disinterested, Mello dropped Near in response, the birthday boy's body making a soft thump on the carpet. "You're not worth my time, Near."

This time Orphan rolled her eyes, sighing at Mello's constant dramatics. "Yeah, well that's all well and good, you two, but I just want some cake."

"I'll cut it," Matt replied wearily, taking up the knife and sympathizing with Orphan. Mello's abusive attachment to Near was beginning to get old.

Matt carefully wielded the knife, dividing the small, yet lavish cake into four pieces, placing them onto paper plates. Orphan took the first one, giving the second to Near. Matt gave himself the third, deciding that if Mello wanted some, he had to come ask for it. Then again, if he didn't want any, maybe he wasn't here for the cake? But it wasn't in Mello's character to wish anyone a happy birthday, even if it was Near, the boy he spent the most time with. Matt turned to the cake, trying not to think about Mello any longer.

"The cake here at Wammy's is really the best anywhere in the world, isn't it," Orphan murmured between mouthfuls of frosting.

Taking a bite, Matt nodded in agreement. Of course the cake had looked entirely white—it _was_ Near's birthday—with vanilla frosting before Matt had sliced it into four quarters. But inside, the cake held two layers of light caramel and the spongy interior actually held pale pastel sugary confetti. It was decadently rich.

"Of course it's the best," Mello said derisively and Matt nearly jumped. He hadn't noticed Mello walk to the remaining piece of cake until the blond was already picking it up. "That's the only thing _he_ eats."

"Really?" Orphan asked, simultaneous with Matt's, "He?"

"Yeah," Mello replied nonchalantly, as if he were completely in the know. Matt also got the distinct impression that no one would tell him who 'he' was. While frustrating, it wasn't the first time the other three had alluded to some greater being with a simple pronoun.

"Maybe I should only eat cake…" Orphan mused, twisting her fork around in her hand and also ignoring Matt's question.

Again Matt found himself wondering who the mysterious 'he' was. He knew most of the orphans and all of the staff by name. And since 'he' was obviously important, there was no possibility of 'him' being a reg Matt didn't know. When Matt thought about it, he had only met a mysterious 'she' at the Wammy's House. It was frustrating because he didn't know anything about her either. He wondered whether the other three knew anything, and more importantly, whether they'd tell him if they did.

But wasn't he supposed to be a detective? Matt's perspective changed suddenly with the thought of a small goal at hand. If he wasn't allowed to investigate his parents' death, he might as well challenge himself with finding out who the girl was. He could hone his field skills here. And certainly there was no harm in asking about her, trying to gain as much information as soon as possible.

"Oy, who's the other girl who lives on the fourth floor?" he asked, not looking at anyone in particular, and yet his peripheral vision caught them all. "She's tall, maybe sixteen, blond with grey or blue eyes…."

Mello and Orphan both paused, confusion on their faces as they turned to look at the auburn-haired boy. Near sat on the floor, twining his hair over a faint bruise with one hand, a fork in the other hand, which he was using to poke at his cake.

"I'm the only girl, you twit," Orphan replied, hitting Matt on the back of the head across the strap of his goggles.

"Unless it's _you_," Mello said nastily. "You're not even as smart as Orphan, so I guess that makes you even less of a girl."

"And you're a misogynist," Orphan retorted without missing a beat, turning to the older boy. Orphan and Mello stared each other down for a brief second before Orphan averted her brown eyes. No one ever held Mello's gaze for long… unless they were asking for a beating. Mello smirked triumphantly, and Matt's odd question seemed to be forgotten.

If they had known of her, Matt was sure the other three would have said as much, and then simply refused to give out details so they could gloat over their own knowledge. Matt would again be the odd one out, slow and clueless. He could only conclude that no one else knew of the existence of the beautiful girl on the fourth floor.

So who was she?

----M----

**October 15, 1998**

Red and gold leaves swirled through the blustery air, the wind demonstrating winter's chill for the first time in the season. Matt pulled his vest tighter around him, the fluffy fleece protecting everything but his striped, thin arms. He had chosen the vest because it still showed his purpose in stripes, and he figured the cold he endured would keep him from forgetting.

Although, there hadn't been a day yet where he hadn't considered his parents and little sister.

Lessons were over for that day after his last class, German. The new semester had started thirty-one August, and while it had meant the end of Latin, it had also meant no more computer science, Matt's favorite class, until next year. The language they were supposed to master by the end of the semester was German. But still, the new semester had brought Detecting as a class, and they were constantly reassured by their various instructors that they would continue to take Detecting until they graduated.

Not that anyone seemed to know when they would graduate.

Matt held his books tighter, shielding himself from the wind as it ripped between Buildings A and B. He knew he would have to spend hours at the library to finish up his World History paper. It was not a task that he was looking forward to, especially since it meant he probably wouldn't have time for dinner. His feet turned him towards the cafeteria. Matt would just have to get himself a snack now, scarf it down, and fast until morning.

Matt pushed the refectory door open with a swirl of fallen leaves; the dead foliage collecting in the wind blocked corners near the doors. Compared to the whistling wind outside, the vast room was full of muffled silence. Matt found himself in the cafeteria too late for lunch, yet too early for dinner. It seemed that even the cooks were absent from the kitchens on some kind of break before preparing the evening meal.

A metal utensil clattered lightly against a plate, echoing throughout the large room. Matt nearly jumped, looking around, before realizing that the sound had come from the kitchen. Maybe there still _was_ a cook back there. If that was the case, Matt might be able to persuade him or her to give him some hot food.

He set his books and bag on the first table, and pushed the swinging door open into the kitchen. Among the stainless steel surfaces and metallic ovens, Matt found himself staring straight into the eyes of Lawrence.

The first thing Matt noticed was Lawrence's expression of surprise, like a deer caught in the headlights, or perhaps, more appropriately, like a child caught sneaking candy. Next came his strange posture, half-crouch half-squat, and the delicate way he was holding his fork. His black hair was still wild and his shirt still white, although this time it was a pullover and not a button-up. He wore faded jeans, the knees softer with wear and age, and his feet were bare, toes curling over the edge of his chair. Matt smiled a little reassuringly to his older friend, and then his eyes dropped to what Lawrence was eating.

It was cake. Surely this couldn't be….

"Would you like some cake, Matt?" The eerie monotone floated across the kitchen.

Matt nodded a little hesitantly and climbed into the stool opposite from Lawrence. The teenager abruptly stood and took a box from the refrigerator. Taking a plate, a fork, and a knife from the cupboards, he sliced a piece and deftly placed it onto the plate before returning to the table. He set the plate and fork in front of Matt with his quirky little smile and then returned to his seat. Matt watched, fascinated, at the way his legs seemed to fold up easily underneath him until he was sitting in his bizarre fashion. Was this…?

"You should eat it, if I was nice enough to share with you. Otherwise, it could be seen as being rude." Lawrence's tone, although still flat, held a hint of rebuke and Matt immediately picked up his fork, his inner questions pushed aside for a moment.

"Thank you," he replied, trying to be polite before taking a bite. Lawrence watched him carefully, his black eyes suddenly intense enough for Matt to consider them a little uncomfortable. He tried to ignore them and focused on the cake. It was chocolate, and Matt was happily surprised to find that the reddish filling was raspberry. "This is really good."

Lawrence seemed satisfied, and looked down to pick up his own fork. "That's because I picked it out."

Matt didn't really know what to say in response to Lawrence's statement, deciding it was probably safe to ask his question. "Lawrence," he began, trying not to squirm as the teenager's black eyes swung up to look at him again, "Do you only eat cake?"

The eyes blinked once, followed by a tilting of his head. Lawrence suddenly held an air of mischievousness. "And why would you think that?"

"I think… that I've heard about you, but just without your name," Matt replied cautiously.

"You… have?" Lawrence asked carefully, and Matt was sure he was being gently teased. "Or do you _think_ you have?"

"Well, if no one mentions your name, then there's no way I can be sure right?" Matt replied a little quickly.

Lawrence seemed to be delighted with his answer, smiling ever-so-slightly and leaning forward. "You're right, Matt. Cake is the best, and you know the old saying…."

Lawrence's lilt trailed off as if he were hoping Matt would finish the sentence for him. Matt blinked, feeling suddenly as if he were being tested. It reminded him of when he had tried to ask Orphan about Mello. There was something hidden beneath the surface here that he needed to figure out. The old saying? Was it about cake? A second ticked by as Matt puzzled it out. No, not about cake….

Matt found the answer like pulling a single string to unravel a messy knot. Something internal told him he was correct before he even began speaking.

"You mean _you're_ the best because you are what you eat, right?"

Lawrence's smile bloomed, and for some reason, Matt felt like receiving Lawrence's smile was the best praise he'd received all month.

"You really are very smart, Matt."

Matt beamed, and then paused. His own answer had led to another question. What was Lawrence the best at? Or what did he want to be the best at? He wondered whether the older boy would tell him outright if he just asked. Somehow, he knew Lawrence would never answer any questions so easily, but Matt's questions didn't seem to bother the teenager. Matt took another bite of cake, wondering how to get at his next answer.

"I'm glad I saw you here today, Matt, but unfortunately, I have to go now." Lawrence stood, his feet reaching down to the ground while his upper torso remained in its permanent hunch. Matt blinked.

"But I just got here!" he argued before realizing how much like a child he sounded. Matt still had answers he wanted to coax out of the teenager. Throughout the conversation, Lawrence had treated him not only like an intelligent being, but also with a sort of kindness. Kindness was not something Matt was accustomed to from anyone besides Wammy anymore. And Lawrence was much closer to his own age….

The older boy rolled his eyes. "And I am just leaving," he retorted, leaving his clean plate where it lay on the table. "But I will see you again, Matt."

"Okay… I'll see you around then," Matt said, feeling a little let down despite Lawrence's sincere reassurance of another meeting.

Never leaving his slouch, Lawrence padded on bare feet out the kitchen, the door swinging behind him. In his wake, Matt wondered why the teenager was so important to his classmates. For Matt, however, Lawrence was significant for his acceptance of the orphaned boy who needed goggles and for sharing his cake. It was the simple things that meant the most, and Matt hoped he would see Lawrence again soon.

----M----

"Oy, did you see him?" Orphan nearly pounced on him, fittingly cat-like, as soon as he had made it to the fourth floor. Matt tried to retreat a comfortable distance away, wary of his allergy to her.

"See who?" Matt answered guardedly.

"I told you," Mello drawled, and Matt noticed his shadowy figure in the doorway to Near's room. "Matt's too dumb; he's never belonged here."

"Bugger off, Mello," Matt responded, his anger getting the better of him. He reminded himself that he actually saw orange and not red.

"I don't have to," Mello retorted flippantly. He tucked a strand of pale golden hair behind an ear, and laughed. "You still don't have a bloody clue, do you, _Matt_?"

Matt tried not to cringe as his name fell from the lips of his enemy. Mello always had a way of making the four letters sound like an insult, instead of something Matt wanted to be proud of. Matt tried to sound determined and confident but his voice came out sullen. "I have more than a bloody clue."

"No, you don't, and that's why you're never going to make it." Mello's tones were loud and mocking, as if inviting everyone else to look in on the ridiculous spectacle that was Matt. "You don't even know what you're failing at. _That's_ how much of a git you are."

Mello pulled himself up away from the doorway, and stalked into the center of the hallway. Matt forced himself to stand firm, lifting his chin to look defiantly into Mello's icy eyes. This close, Matt could see beyond the narrowed lids, glacial irises, and inky pupils into a fearsome anger, a near-blind rage. It looked about as possible as lightning in a bottle, and Matt understood the real reason no one ever locked eyes with the blond boy. It wasn't that the few people who had been unfortunate enough to try had wound up with bruises. It was the stare itself, a gaze of sharpened daggers restrained by the force of his questionable will.

Matt looked away, resisting the urge to draw in a deep breath to calm himself. He felt Mello smirk, heard the rustle of the other boy's black clothes as he relaxed into a superior position again. Somehow, Matt had lost this one, and as much as it irked him to have to lose to Mello, he was too scared to try to take him on again right away.

"You know, Matt," Mello whispered, traces of poison laced into his softened voice, "Maybe I'll let you in on the secret…."

Matt held his breath. Because as much as he didn't want to admit it, he knew there _was_ something he hadn't been told. He could just ask Wammy what it was, but then he'd look weak. As if he couldn't figure it out on his own, because of course the other children must have done it alone. But here was Mello offering to tell him plainly, and even though Matt _knew_ the blond must have ulterior motives—_because_ it was _Mello_—the other boy was still offering. And moving in closer, apparently relishing Matt's weakness, his lack of breath, voice, movement. Strands of blond hair slipped from behind Mello's ear, swinging delicately as the inches between them closed. Matt was frozen so utterly that he could hear Mello's slight intake of breath before the blond completed his poisonous proposal.

"…So I can watch you fail."

Pulling back for a malicious grin, Mello abruptly turned and headed back to Near's door. Matt sucked in air as silently as he could and held back tears. There was no way he was going to cry in front of anyone, especially because of Mello. Now that the moment was suddenly over, Matt could hardly believe it had happened. What _had_ happened? Mello had just looked at him and said a few taunting words… nothing like that should make Matt cry.

"Oy, Matt," Mello barked, and Matt turned instinctively at the sound of his name, "It's a contest, asshole. To be the best in the world."

The best… what? The four letters of 'best' echoed throughout Matt's head, oddly reminiscent of cake. Four letters… his head felt suddenly tight, like his brain was trying to expand but had no room, or perhaps his subconscious was trying to force its insights into his conscious mind. The four letters… were those C-A-K-E? Or M, N, O, and M? And yet, they were exactly like cake, weren't they? _You are what you eat. _The best. Suddenly positive the answer lay with Lawrence, Matt spun towards the door that never opened, the one emblazoned with a gothic L. It had to be Lawrence, even if he didn't know what Lawrence did… except, he knew what he, Mello, Near, and Orphan were trying to be. It clicked, all the pieces from his months at the Wammy's House, and Matt understood.

The best detective in the world.

"And I'm going to win," Mello stated triumphantly.

"Sure, Mello," Orphan replied sarcastically, suddenly taking part in the conversation, but still refusing to meet the blond's eyes. "Because you've always been so good at keeping everything together."

"If it's to be L's successor," Near's quiet voice floated from his doorway, and in the silence that followed, Matt heard the unmistakable click of puzzle piece. "Then it shall be me."

Matt saw them all as if for the first time. This contest… it was their lives. What couldn't Matt do if he were known as the best detective in the world? Policemen like Seaver and Brinkley would trip over themselves for his help on cases. Solving the murder of his family would be child's play. He felt himself change with the realization.

There could be only one 'best,' only one successor to the current great detective.

"You're all wrong," Matt found himself saying. He turned back towards the other three, clustered in the hallway, and lifted his eyes. "I'm going to be Lawrence's successor."

Mello yelled a wordless cry of fury, the electricity unleashed, and barreled into Matt, tackling him to the ground. Matt saw the fist coming, felt his chest constrict as he realized he was completely pinned. Then he was spiraling down into darkness as black as Mello's shirt, the impacts of Mello's fists on his flesh echoing further and further away.

* * *

----M----

_Ahahahaaa... so sorry for the ridiculously long update. The good news is that the next chapter is almost fully written (my deadline for myself is Friday, my beta's will be given... two weeks?), so the wait shouldn't be as long. Um, I think I owe various people cookies from chapter five or something still... in my rush to post up the previous chapter, I forgot to put it up._

_Crazy Little Feline: you get 3 cookies. Remind me and I'll see that you really get them when the time comes. XD You correctly guessed chapter 1's "Speeding Cars" by Imogen Heap, chapter 2's "Across the Universe" by The Beatles, and chapter 3's "Jump" by Madonna._

SilverSoleAclmst1: you get half a cookie because you got the artist for the song, and eventually wrote in the title… kind of... and you looked it up. But yes, I agree, chapter five had a lovely song: "Twilight" by Vanessa Carlton.

Svadilfari: you get the other half of the cookie because you left such a thoughtful review that reassured me a lot about how well I was doing. And you really wanted one.

The rest of you still have chapter four and six to figure, as well as today's chapter. Good luck!

Thanks muchly still to all of you who have reviewed since chapter six: akane-nechan, Nicole, foxxninja-xa, slashhack (which I want to believe is a Reboot reference), sammich, Risu, Okami'sTot, C Elise, Tobi Tortue, TELLMEYOURSTORY, Hinamori13, and Debility.

_Okay, anja-chan over and out.  
_


	8. Chapter 8

Letters

8

----M----

**June 18, 2007**

Matt took a deep breath and exhaled, a vague prayer leaving his lips with wisps of cigarette smoke. His fingers hovered restlessly over the keyboard, the screen lit up with the Wammy's House homepage. It'd been a year since he'd learned the truth, and it was shaming to admit that he'd spent that year trying to run from it. Sure, he'd made contact with Near, and then spent the rest of his time searching for Mello, but that plan had clearly backfired. A wave of bitterness surged over Matt; he'd always _looked_ like he was doing something worthwhile, like he had some legitimate excuse to hide from Wammy's, even when there was no excuse.

Here, now, though… it was a different game. Hacking straight into his own heart of darkness, his own wilderness where people actually devolved while pushing progress forward, Matt wondered grimly what he would find this time. Another story of eternal pain and skewed justice? Matt shook his head. It was hard to imagine Mello as some kind of victim in such a manufactured divine comedy. Matt hesitated on the threshold, waiting to cross over with the push of a single button. Dante's prose floated to the surface of his mind like a bloated corpse rolled over for police identification in an isolated mountain lake.

_Abandon all hope ye who enter here. _ Ironic how the enter key was also labeled return.

Matt entered his hacking system and returned to Wammy's through its computer network with one keystroke. His fingers became a blur then, activating his homemade programs to counteract Wammy-originated ones that tried to lock him out, while he simultaneously searched for keyword: Mello.

With 1,206 hits, Matt braced himself and began scanning titles. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for, but felt he would know it when he saw it. It was likely to be similar to Peter's pages, yet older. He switched the search to list by date, skipping back ten pages and a few years to 2004, going backwards. His green eyes sped over the searches, while his fingers never slowed. Next page. It scrolled down automatically, the words nearly blurring together. Still nothing caught his attention. Next page, the process starting again.

A few chirps from his computer alerted him to a new threat and he enlarged the window to one of his defense programs. Someone was trying to hack him in retaliation? Matt nearly snorted at the impossibility of that goal, his eyes following the lines of code his adversary was inputting. He had to admit it was good, but nowhere near good enough. His lips stretched into a tight smile; knowing the other hacker couldn't touch him, he let his opponent flounder around while he continued searching Wammy's server. It would keep the idiot occupied and online, which was all Matt needed. The only thing that could shut him out would be for Wammy's to go into lock-down mode and cease communications with the rest of the web.

Matt quickly switched back to scanning titles and his eyes seemed to land right on the document he knew he'd been looking for. The last access date, November 4th, matched Peter's, as these kinds of files had only been accessed by Wammy. He doubleclicked, his heart pounding.

_Mihael Keehl, aka Mello. _Matt read it several times over, mesmerized. Mihael. He said it to himself, wondering how to pronounce it… Mello's true name. A wave of giddiness hit him without warning. Matt knew Mello's real name. It was… impossible, and yet, he _knew_. Suddenly realizing he'd been spacing out for several seconds, Matt started the file download.

He felt almost like a cheater, but then remembered that Mello had set him up the day before. Mello—no, _Mihael_—deserved this. Hell, it might even be for his own good, Matt thought vehemently.

Another chime went off, and Matt watched as the torrent cut off halfway.

"Shit," he breathed. Wammy's was offline and he was locked out. Matt sat back and stretched his fingers, breathing out a sigh.

A moment passed in complete silence before Matt sat up straight, a smile twitching into place on his face. There _was_ a bright side; Matt now had half of Mello's hidden information on his hard drive, waiting for him to sift through. The bastard deserved it, Matt reminded himself merrily, and really, he should be thankful it was Matt who was doing the hacking…

…because at least Matt would keep his deepest secrets safe.

----M----

"_I am such a haunted soul_

_Your ghost has gone to bed_

_It's all cold._

_Don't wake me up_

_I am still dreaming_

_The story's undone_

_Unravel at the seams."_

----M----

**November 21, 1998**

Matt yawned and paused Link's quest to push his goggles up and wipe his eyes. He was nearing the final battle on Tal Tal Mountain, but it was also nearing four in the morning. He'd gotten the Game Boy Color with Link's Awakening as a present from Wammy earlier that month, but with his studies so intense, the only times he could play were also his sleeping hours.

He yawned again, glancing down at the Link-shaped group of pixels through bleary eyes. It was probably time to go to sleep… the Wind Fish would have to wait. The lavatory, however, could not. Matt sighed, not wanting to walk down the hall in the middle of the night. He had slippers, but it would still be cold.

Matt saved his game and shut it off, standing up to stretch a little and pull his goggles down around his neck so he could wipe his eyes again. Plucking up his key, he stepped into the hallway, moonlight streaming through the upper windows onto the carpet.

His gaze followed the bleached patterns of light, hitting upon something irregular.

"Hey kid," the girl said as Matt recognized her. She seemed paler in the moonlight, and Matt felt a wave of vertigo overtake him but it passed quickly, although his heart managed to continue to rocket around in his chest. What did that kind of reaction mean? The girl moved closer, becoming more vibrant as she did so, as if her coloring brightened with her proximity. Or perhaps Matt's eyes were simply adjusting to the glare of the moonlight.

"Too shy to say hi?" she asked, leaning down to Matt's level once she was close enough. Her hair swung around her head and fell off her shoulders to sway in front of him. Matt found himself utterly tongue-tied, a small voice in his head asking whether this meant he was in love. Her eyes were grey-green with long lashes and with carefully shaped eyebrows arcing gracefully over them. She was terribly beautiful….

"That's alright," she said smiling. Her face radiant, she pulled back to lean against the wall near his door. His eyes drawn to her far-away look, Matt noticed only in passing that she was wearing the same paint-splashed white shirt. "I know what that's like."

Matt was unable to believe the teenager before him, her confidence and appeal far too strong. The words left Matt before he had time to register them. "But you're so pretty!"

"Oh? So you _can _speak." The girl laughed, a silky tremble that vibrated in her throat.

Matt blushed against his will and hoped she couldn't see as well as he could in the dark. "I…" he began before realizing that he had no idea what he wanted to say.

She turned to look down at him anyway, a bemused smile on her face. Her attention was suddenly focused on him alone. "You really are a good kid, though, aren't you."

Matt felt his throat start to close, as he tried to come up with a way to speak in the presence of her intimidating loveliness. His sentence came out in a rush, sounding more like a single word that he was afraid wouldn't make it past his throat. "Could-you-tell-me-your-name-please-miss?"

There was a slight pause in which Matt felt horribly embarrassed. Had she even been able to understand his pathetic attempt at speaking to her? Surely she would think him an idiot now. But then came the tinkle of her laughter, like silver wind chimes, and she came over to him again. She lowered herself down into a squat so that her ethereal face was level with his own, their eyes meeting directly without the usual protection of his goggles.

"You can call me this…" she said quietly, bringing her hands to cup gently either side of his face. Her fingers were smooth, cool, and light on his burning cheeks. Carefully she pulled Matt closer, until she could place a feathery kiss on the top of his auburn head.

Matt held himself utterly still. He was confused, but at the moment, confusion didn't bother him. He was more occupied with the giddy emotion in the pit of his stomach that seemed to decrease his oxygen intake. She had _kissed_ him. He knew he probably looked like an idiot with a huge grin plastered across his face, but he couldn't stop himself. The girl released him slowly with a faint smile and then stood, turning to walk back down the hallway. The moonlight caressed her faded jeans, and she became pale again, an ephemeral wraith of beauty, even though the reflections off her hair triggered his eyes into watering. She paused at the same door she had been at the first time Matt had seen her. She placed her forehead against the wood, the entire surface moonlit in silver. In profile, Matt could still see the color reflected in one of her eyes, giving her a look distant from the current time and place. Her voice carried over to him like a sigh and Matt knew she wasn't really addressing the small redheaded boy behind her.

"Do you think Jiwon will ever notice me?"

Matt swallowed, unsure whether he could respond or even whether a response would be appropriate. The small hairs on his arms suddenly prickled and his palms began to sweat. Matt wiped his hands on his pyjamas, and looked down to the more relaxing darkness. He wiped his eyes free of tears, before pulling his goggles on, hoping the small act would buy him some time to think. Of course, nothing popped into his head—what could someone like him offer to a girl like her as advice? With the goggles securely on, Matt looked up through the oranges lenses, only to discover that she was no longer in the hallway.

Hugging his key to himself, Matt hurried off to the bathroom.

----M----

**November 23, 1998**

Orphan was at in the Administration building with a sick cat. Check. Mello and Near were ensconced in the back corner of the library. Check. Check. With the other three Letters accounted for, Matt felt confident he was alone on the fourth floor. And if he wasn't, only Lawrence could be behind the L door and Matt would almost wish he would come out. Even though he felt his heart beating wildly enough that he was sure he was either having a heart attack or that someone would hear it, Matt steeled himself and raised his arm.

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

The sound echoed down the hallway, but nothing stirred. He shifted on his feet in front of the unmarked door where he had seen the mysterious girl. The chances were high that she lived there… or the Jiwon she spoke of did. Either way, he was sure that if he could talk to one of them, he'd learn who she was. He hadn't given up his self-imposed detective training, and the fact that she hadn't given him her name straight-out only made Matt want to discover it more.

Matt knocked again. Nothing happened.

He waited twenty minutes, sitting down against the door across from the one he was watching and pulling out his Gameboy to help pass the time. He left with his determination intact, knowing he'd simply have to get his information elsewhere.

---M---

**November 24, 1998**

"Oh, hi Matt," Linda replied a little uneasily. She didn't look him in the face. Matt tried to ignore her attitude, not letting her see how he gritted his teeth. The cold November wind whistled between the buildings and Matt pulled his vest tighter against himself.

"You've been at Wammy's for a long time, haven't you?" he asked, feeling awkward. He reminded himself that he was only talking to her to get some information. This was a purely professional exchange, so Matt should keep himself as detached as possible. Besides, why should he care what a reg thought of him?

Linda nodded, her signature blonde pigtails shaking. "This is my third year." Her eyes, a vivid blue, turned up to Matt's. "…Why do you care?"

Matt shrugged, deciding to give her the only real piece of information he had in connection with the strange girl. "I wanted to know if you knew anyone named Jiwon."

Her eyes widened in shock and fear at the name, and Matt knew without a doubt that she knew who the girl had been speaking about. Chances were that she probably knew the girl too. Despite, or perhaps _because_ of the fear on Linda's face, Matt felt smugly satisfied that his detecting skills had gotten him somewhere. He decided he wasn't afraid of whoever Jiwon was because with the knowledge he was acquiring, he would have no reason to fear him. He'd learned in class that knowledge was power and Matt felt more powerful already. He now knew that Jiwon had been here some time within the last three years and had left a lasting impression. It also fit that Linda wouldn't like Jiwon if the boy had lived on the fourth floor… he'd be one of _those_ kids, someone with knowledge and power beyond those of ordinary children. And Matt suddenly realized, translating the movements of the girl before him in a new light, that Linda feared _him_ as well.

"Tell me everything you know about him, Linda," Matt ordered, testing out his new commanding air. He felt like he was in a movie. Linda reacted accordingly, not actually taking a step back, but seeming to shrink into herself a little. She nodded, again unable to meet Matt's goggles. A wave of triumph surged into Matt's growing pride, then ebbed in sudden horror.

What was he doing? He froze, blood pounding in his ears as he recognized Linda's position as one he'd been in for most of his life. Bullied. Jeered. Disrespected. It had been easy to fall into the give-and-take of the social structures of the Letters, those between the four children and those with the rest of the world. But that didn't necessarily mean it was… right.

How could Matt hope to be a detective and solve the world's crimes if he couldn't even be nice to others? Matt had never wanted to hurt anyone or place them in the same position he had been in. Yet here he was, relishing the idea of getting his information from a scared girl. Matt looked at Linda again.

She was about eight years old, about the age where normal children would begin forming closer friendships with some, but singling out others. From that alone, Matt figured she was probably worried she could get singled out from her coveted popular spot in her group of friends. She always wore her hair in pigtails… a hint that she didn't like leaving her comfort bubble, she didn't like changes. Matt had never seen her wear her hair any differently, and her clothes were meticulously picked from a collection of fashionable jeans and cute t-shirts. She always seemed to look the same. From this critical standpoint, Matt could see almost right away that she was self-conscious about how others perceived her, and so she usually hid behind a confident, braggart exterior that took the form of gossip. But the mention of Jiwon, something she didn't understand very well, she grew uncomfortable and afraid. She was actually fairly typical. Average.

And Matt felt jaded.

"Sorry, I'm just curious. I didn't know it would scare you or anything. If you really don't want to talk about it…" Matt trailed off. The honest words left his mouth with a hint of shame in them. Linda looked up suddenly, her eyes still wide, but the fear seemed to be slowly leaving them, replaced with a kind of wonder. The look was lost when she suddenly snapped her eyes back to their normal expression.

"I'm not scared or anything, Matt," Linda scoffed, but Matt could see right through it. It gave him the strange sensation that he'd lost something, but he brushed it aside as Linda continued. "Jiwon used to live up on the fourth floor."

"Used to?" Matt questioned.

"Yeah, he was a lot older. I mean, he left Wammy's already. Graduated out, you know." Linda seemed smug suddenly, and Matt allowed it to her, realizing that if she thought she was gaining something here, it would only let her speak more freely. Matt pondered her reply. So Jiwon was probably around the same age as the girl… it made sense.

"What about a girl around the same age? She still lives on the fourth floor, but she won't tell me her name. Do you know…" Matt's voice died in his throat as Linda's expression faded into shock, her face paling to a chalky white.

"Linda?"

"You… saw Kiss?" Her voice was low, spoken in a frightened whisper.

"Kiss?" Matt repeated, not quite understanding Linda's horror. He thought back to his encounter… the beautiful teenager must have kissed the top of his head in place of a name. Of course, he realized, trying not to let his face turn red and looking down in case it did. There was no way Kiss had really cared about kissing him. He felt suddenly like an idiot, knowing that he should have been able to figure that out sooner. He hurried on, hoping not to blush in front of Linda. "Yeah, it must have been her."

He looked back up to Linda, belatedly recalling himself to the moment. "What's the matter?"

"Kiss is dead, Matt." Linda's voice was deathly quiet and shaky, her face still bloodless. "She was killed up on the fourth floor last year."

Matt blinked, suppressing a shiver, before letting logic make his way easier. Linda was probably just trying to make him look like an idiot… except she seemed like she was too scared to try to mess with him. However, logic was logic, and there was no evidence for believing in ghosts. And Kiss especially couldn't be a ghost; she had touched him. He pushed down a memory of the uneasy feeling and vertigo he had experienced on their first encounter. It couldn't be true; Linda was just trying to screw with his head because she didn't like _those_ kids, people like him. "Then it wasn't her."

The color was gently returning to Linda's face as she shook her head. "So describe her."

"Reddish-blonde, maybe 16, grey eyes, a—"

"And a bloody t-shirt?" Linda supplied, cutting Matt off. The red and white pattern that he couldn't decide whether it was paint or a flower pattern… was blood? No... blood was sickeningly red and monstrous and flowed along floorboards towards dark corners. It didn't have a place near the beautiful girl. It just didn't. It _couldn't._ Matt met Linda's eyes, trying to figure out how she was lying to him, knowing that she _had_ to be lying. Otherwise, Matt would.... He stopped thinking about it, his mind weaving around the issue, giving him more calming and logical conclusions to put in its place. Of course she was lying. He just needed to prove it now. Find the clues and work out the puzzle like a real detective would.

"Why don't _you_ describe her further and _I'll_ decide whether it's the same girl?" He asked.

"She's really, really pretty and her eyes are actually kind of green and her hair is long and wavy." Linda seemed very sure of herself and Matt tried to find the lie in her words, but it didn't seem to be there. He felt the world shifting around him, the feeling of unreality settling into him again ever so slowly. Kiss... could she really be dead?

"Someone else has seen her ghost before, you know," Linda commented into Matt's silence. Her manner changed to one more subdued, and she looked down at the dying grass beneath her feet.

"You?" Matt guessed, only half aware of himself and her words. He wasn't sure where the other half of himself had gone. He felt distanced, estranged from the moment.

"No," she replied quietly. "It was Near. He told me about it when he first got here."

Several ideas struck Matt at once. Near hadn't mentioned seeing Kiss when Matt had asked at his birthday party... but then again, Near hadn't said he _hadn't _seen her either. He hadn't responded at all, but Matt had brushed it off as Near simply being Near. It could be possible. Not only that, but for Linda to reference Near meant that they actually spoke to each other? Enough so that Near would tell her about seeing girls or ghosts called Kiss. But why would Near and Linda ever talk? It made absolutely no sense at all. But if Linda were telling the truth? Invoking Near's name when Linda knew Matt lived closer to the pale boy than she did meant that she wanted Near to back her up on this. Matt had to assume that Near knew as much as he did about Kiss. He wondered suddenly if Mello—his biggest rival—knew. It was certainly likely that the blond boy had beaten it out of the albino. Was this some kind of test or race to find the truth? Matt was suddenly driven by his need to know more than Mello and to beat him at whatever Matt's detective quest had turned into. He snapped back to the present situation, reality slipping snugly back into place around him.

"Linda?" Matt asked, his voice authoritative with his need. "How did she die?" What was the test here? To find the liar and the lie? Did the instructors know about this? Was this really some complex trick set by them? Or was he supposed to realize that maybe things were possible outside the norm? What if she were really a ghost? What was his task then? Helping her rest? The thought was dizzying with its gravity, colliding into his other questions that he knew he needed to find the answers to on his own.

The blond girl looked away. "None of the adults will talk about it, but everyone knows Ivan killed her."

A chill seeped into Matt's blood, mingling with his . A murder? But more importantly, a name: Ivan. Which would be followed by Jiwon and Kiss. They were more Letters. More detectives in training? But if that was the case, why would one of them become the criminal? Why would anyone have wanted to kill Kiss? And was any of this real? Had anyone actually died?

He looked carefully at Linda. If she were a skilled enough liar at her age to convince him that she was telling the truth, she'd probably be living on the fourth floor. Linda believed whatever she was saying.

But what about the Letters that had come before I? Where were they? Graduated?

…Dead?

Matt realized belatedly that Linda was staring at him because he hadn't outwardly shown a reaction to her words. "Th-that's terrible," Matt mumbled, trying to come up with anything to say that would keep Linda from thinking he was heartless for not caring that Ivan had killed Kiss. His head was still spinning from all the information, little waves of questions with no answers lapping over him. "I'll, uh, talk to you later."

For some reason, Matt had to force himself to simply walk away, restraining the part of him that wanted to run. His heart was beating rapidly, and his breath came faster. What was wrong with him? Panic bubbled up from his chest, only making him gasp more for oxygen. Something was terribly wrong; his body shouldn't be doing this for no reason. Was he dying? Would he turn into a ghost like Kiss? The rubber padding of his goggles felt slick with cold sweat. His heart beat still faster as his adrenaline kicked in, responding to Matt's fear. What was happening to him? His steps got quicker. He needed to get away, get inside, under his blankets. Or maybe a hospital? What did a heart attack feel like? He gulped, his mouth dry from the air that he couldn't seem to get enough of. If he could just get around that corner… please let him make it to the corner….

Matt ran, gasping and choking, his heart thundering erratically to his ears, knowing he wouldn't be safe until he was back in his little solitary world of darkness.

----M----

**November 26, 1998 **

He avoided going outdoors as much as he could help it after speaking with Linda. He still didn't know what had happened, but the thought of returning to the withered grass, cold air, and winter sun made his throat begin to close up. The setting was too vivid, the remembered scenery too intense.

Today was better, though. Heavy clouds had thundered their way slowly across the sky and opened up a torrential current of rain, blotting out the sun and drenching the landscape in a gloomy darkness. It was the first time Matt had been able to leave his goggles around his neck on his way to dinner.

He darted across the damp sidewalk, and ducked inside the refectory. Matt ran a hand through his hair in the vain effort to dry off the red strands before shaking himself like a wet dog. It wasn't very effective, but he wandered into the large room, still dripping slightly from the downpour.

It was empty, save for three older boys hunched over a table, who looked like they were playing some kind of game. Matt recognized them from his building, and his mind kicked into gear, analyzing the teenagers. Those three mainly kept to themselves, and had an air of delinquency about them that made Matt uncomfortable. He wasn't sure how it had become his habit to evaluate the people in his immediate vicinity, but it had been happening since his encounter with Linda. Matt didn't always enjoy doing so; it felt like his mind kept racing ahead to tell him things he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Nonetheless, the three boys drew his attention while he walked over to the kitchen. Matt forced himself to look away, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Proper dinner was already over, so he scavenged around the kitchen. He saw a basket of fruit and decided it was probably healthier for him than eating cake like he had done with Lawrence. Matt wondered vaguely when he would see the teenager. He picked up an apple and exited the kitchen, putting it up to his mouth as he did so. Except a burst of laughter erupted from the table at the same time and he jumped. Matt's feeling of unease only grew when the laughter quieted suddenly as he spun to face the noise.

The one closest to him was Grant. His broad-shouldered back faced Matt and over one such shoulder, Matt caught Crick's nervous grey eyes that never settled on any one thing for too long in a fashion Matt found unsettling. Matt looked to the third boy sitting at the table.

Unlike his companions, this one, Dan, could only be called beautiful. Darker skin and a classically chiseled face with hair that curled into dark rings swept back from his forehead. Matt would also have called him friendly as well as beautiful, except for his dark chocolate eyes; they looked sweet, but seemed to hold something bitter within. For a moment, those eyes rested on Matt's, and he found that he didn't necessarily dislike Dan's eyes and the way he was watching him. He pushed the thought from his mind quickly, not wanting to analyze it.

It only took a few seconds for Matt to glance over the three boys, the feeling of disquiet unrelenting. Apple in hand, Matt turned to go, taking a few more steps towards the door.

"On second thought," Dan began loudly, and Matt felt his ears turn red, knowing that it was for his benefit, "No way am I betting against that."

Crick snickered, and Matt fought the urge to turn and face them. Would he be giving in if he did? They were only trying to goad him into doing something, he was sure.

"Apples?" Crick asked through his chuckling. Matt decided he didn't like Crick at all, and took another small step towards the door. He felt like a mouse trying to sneak away from three sated cats. They didn't want to eat him, but couldn't resist trying to toy with a meal they might share later.

"No, you git," Dan replied softly, yet his deeper voice carried along with the sound a fist hitting someone in the shoulder.

Grant spoke next, slowly and with care to emphasize his words. "I'd say the girl goes first. They _always_ do."

As Grant spoke, Matt found himself unable to prevent himself from slowly turning back to the group. He didn't understand their words, having only picked up the conversation halfway through, but a shiver of fear spasmed its way down Matt's spine. The room began to slowly take on a surreal feel, the corners of slinking off into an unimportant blur.

"That's only because you were surrounded by them. Naw, it'll be the cripple," Crick was quick to reply, and his eyes darted over to Matt before sliding around the room again. The pale teen's hands twitched together, his body still in motion even though he was sitting.

"No," Dan replied smoothly, his gaze also falling onto Matt, "It'll be _that_ one."

Matt felt his heart freeze as Crick burst into laughter, the hint of hysteria louder now, so that no one could have believed something funny had happened from the sound of it. Matt's blood was like ice, shifting through his veins as slowly as glaciers. The words that had come from Dan's mouth were harmless, but the _tone, _the _inflection_ was a veiled threat.

"Shut up, Crick," Grant said, a trace of annoyance and a sigh in his voice. Dan just continued to smile. Matt felt trapped.

"But, he's supposed to be the smarter one," the blond whined, looking between his two companions with a slightly crazed smile. Were they talking about _him_?

"But not the strongest," Dan returned easily, almost lazily.

There was a pause laced with the sound of Crick trying to suffocate his neurotic chuckles and Matt debated running.

"Alright, how much?" It was Grant, his steady voice breaking the silence. Matt tried to make sense of what was going on. What exactly were they betting on? Suddenly, Matt was sure it was something he needed to know.

"Fifty," Dan answered smoothly.

It was followed by a low whistle from Crick that lapsed into his constant snicker. Grant's shoulders shifted and Matt could tell he was looking at the laughing teen expectantly.

Crick became completely still for a moment to give his answer in a serious tone. "I'll go cripple."

"And I'll go the girl," Grant said like a dealer in a card room. "How long?"

The room fell completely silent for a moment, without even the rustle of clothing from Crick's restless movement. Matt could have guessed it would have been Crick to break it.

"Yeah?" Crick cackled, "You think a few years before their little minds explode, Grant?"

"I'm surprised he's lasted so long already." Dan smiled, looking directly at Matt.

Matt ran, his footsteps echoing back into the laughter around the table.

* * *

_AND THE PLOT THICKENS!! *dramatic music plays* Actually, I have certain playlists that I listen to when I write this story. If anyone wants to know, I could probably PM the list(s) out to people, or at least a few of the songs I think are essential to me. :)  
_

_To be honest to my wonderful readers... I don't really have any excuses for being so tardy besides that I seem to usually run out of momentum after 7 chapters of things. HOWEVER, Letters is a little closer to my heart and I've already made that little document on my computer labeled chapter 10. This chapter unfortunately had to go through more than the usual number of revisions, but hopefully it was worth the wait. Let me know if it was? And as always, please leave a review and feel free to guess the songs from any of the chapters._

_This also marks the anniversary for this story being published, so yay! Happy Birthday Letters! I guess this means I average 8 chapters a year, ehehehe. I'll try to pick up the pace for you guys, but we'll see how I do with the rest of my life. Thanks for all the support._


	9. Chapter 9

Letters

9

----M----

**June 18, 2007**

"_Mihael Keehl._

_Alias: Mello_

_Date of Birth: 13 December 1989_

_Nationality: Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, Slovenia (1989-1991); Republic of Slovenia (1991); Austria (1991-1998); Great Britain (1998-present)_

_Last city of residence before acceptance: Klagenfurt_

_Entered: 1 June 1998_

_Known family:_

_Damijan Keehl, father, deceased as of 30 June 1991. Ten Day War civilian casualty._

_Isidor Keehl, mother, deceased as of 13 April 1996. Infection from an injury sustained in Ten Day War resulted in illness. Exact disease/virus unknown._

_Annaliese Magstanik, aunt, deceased as of 18 May 1998. Car accident._

_Cai Magstanik, uncle, deceased as of 18 May 1998. Car accident._

_Work experience: Unpaid child labor for Cai Magstanik. Mostly menial tasks. (1991?-1998)_

_Criminal record:_

_18 April 1996: Crime against another person's wealth. Attempted to steal a scooter, caught by a bystander. Police arrived and returned him home. Keehl had been listed as missing since 16 April 1996._

_30 April 1996: Crime against another person's wealth. Jewelry store._

_17 May 1996: Crime against another person's wealth. Apartment._

_3 July 1997: Crime against another person's wealth. Residence._

_Suspected, but culpability remains unproven, in 13 other counts of robbery and theft between 1996 and 1998."_

Matt sighed, and his anger at Mello diminished slowly, achingly as he read his way through. Mello had a total of seventeen suspected felonies between the ages of six and eight. It appeared that Mello had always been a delinquent, and Matt could see it in his mind's eye. Mello as Matt had first seen the frightening blond, perhaps only a little younger running around the streets of a small Austrian town—Klagenfurt, apparently—speaking a mixture of Slovene and German while trying to hotwire motor scooters and then sell them. At first, the image made Matt chuckle, but the sound caught in his throat and pity clutched at his stomach, nearly making him cry instead. Matt had thought his own life was a horror to live through... and here was Mello's childhood stretched out like some grisly tale of death, deceit, and delinquency. His stomach churned unpleasantly. They weren't at the end of this story yet, either.

Matt suddenly felt like he was poking into something he shouldn't. This was Mello's private life, what he had kept secret from the prying eyes and minds of the world for years. The child Mello had been. His name. His family.

That family was all dead, of course. Like Matt's.

Matt's chest felt heavy and he hoped he was wrong. Everyone deserved to have at least one person he could always trust... right?

----M----

"_I don't want to say it,_

_The news is not so good_

_We'll never get away,_

_And even if we could_

_We'd just play the tambourine_

_Around an open flame,_

_Oversleep and burn_

_To be back in the game."_

----M----

**November 26, 1998**

Matt didn't stop running until he was back in his room, panting and gasping, the adrenaline still rushing through his system. It took him a minute before he realized he was still holding the apple that he had taken from the refectory, and another before he stopped visibly shaking. He tried to will the residual tremors out of his fingers as he sat on his bed, taking his goggles from around his neck and placing them on the bedside cabinet.

The apple lay cradled against his skin, a cool dark shape, slightly heavy in the palm of his hand.

Slowly, Matt collected himself enough to take a bite, and tried to think. Crick's high laughter echoed around the insides of his skull, but Matt squeezed his eyes shut and pushed past his fear. The echoes quieted and all he could hear was the sound of his own breath, resuming an even and calming tempo. He opened his eyes.

Matt knew what they had been talking about. The overt and subconscious clues the three had given off had left him with no other answer. Grant, Crick, and Dan had been talking about Matt and the other students who lived on the fourth floor. And betting on how long they'd survive.

Matt suppressed a shiver and a sick feeling began welling up into his stomach. The cripple would be Near, the girl was Orphan, and since Mello was certainly the strongest, that meant Matt was supposed to be the smartest. A bit of pride washed through him before receding into the overwhelming fear he still felt. There were too many questions batting around his brain at once, like hornet's nest after it was poked with a stick. Matt closed his eyes to focus, replaying the conversation.

"_No way am I betting against that."_

"_I'd say the girl goes first. They _always_ do."_

"…_Naw, it'll be the cripple."_

"_No… it'll be _that_ one."_

Matt's stomach dropped and landed where the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. He felt sick and tried to swallow as tears pricked at his eyes. They hadn't been betting on who would win the contest. They had been betting on who would _lose_. On the child who would... die first, his wild mind supplied with the worst case scenario. No, that couldn't be right. Expelled first? He gulped down air.

The callousness of the three teenagers ate at him, gnawing into his heart. Had they been there to bet on Kiss? On Ivan? Jiwon? Matt wiped his eyes quickly, fiercely, and gritted his teeth. Did this mean these stupid regs all thought Mello would win? The notion burned like a highly corrosive acid. No wonder they were regs, because Matt knew _he_ wouldn't back down. He needed to be the best detective so he could find the man with the hat and avenge the deaths of his family. And Mello? Matt's teeth ground harder into each other. Mello was nothing to worry about. He was an arrogant maniac, with no chance of gaining the number one slot that was given to the best student of the previous quarter. Ever. Orphan was number one this quarter, but Matt was nearly even with Mello's second place, even though both of them had gotten head starts. He had already surpassed Near.

Let them bet, he decided, feeling somewhat reckless with his anger. He'd only shock them more when they found out how wrong they were. He rotated his apple a little in his hands before raising it to his lips, looking for a place to take another bite.

Crick and his stupid laughing. He took a bite almost viciously, pulling a bit of the peel off with his teeth.

Dan and his dark, lying eyes. Matt crunched the crisp fruit between his molars, wiping a little juice from the corner of his mouth.

Grant and his muscled restraint. He swallowed, the morsel slipping easily down his throat.

"_I'd say the girl goes first. They _always_ do," Grant had said._

"_That's only because you were surrounded by them."_

A gasp escaped Matt's lips. The apple found a place near his goggles as he tore open his bag and yanked out a notebook, flipping to the last page. He threw open the top drawer to his bedside stand, his fingers closing around the first pen they touched. Back to the empty page before him, the horizontal lines of the college-ruled sheet jumped out at him, daring him to spell out his theory. Pen poised above the paper, Matt held his breath for a second.

He wrote the first 15 letters of the alphabet vertically, before adding another M at the very end. He paused before giving that final letter the rest of his name. The Letters with Matt there at the very end, not quite fitting in.

He filled it in as best he could: the names he knew, the current rankings, other information he felt important. He felt oddly calm and yet on the verge of tears at the same time. It was nearly too difficult to keep his hand from shaking.

A

B

Crick

Dan

E

F – girl?

Grant

H – girl?

Ivan

Jiwon - graduated

Kiss – dead

Lawrence – BEST

Mello – 2

Near – 4

Orphan – 1

Matt – 3

Matt stared at the piece of paper, the strange force of his thoughts drained.

Was this really what was going on? But then wouldn't Crick, Dan, and Grant live on the fourth floor too? Now that his rush of energy had faded, Matt was left confused. The strange, suffocating feeling he had when he had been writing was gone, and he could hardly imagine having it. What was the point of alphabetically naming people? Even if there was some kind of weird alphabet of people, Matt didn't fit into it. He screwed it up. With two Ms and no A, B, E, F or H, it certainly looked like Matt was making up patterns where there weren't any. What proof did he have?

He closed the notebook. There was still too much he didn't know. Even if there was some kind of list, chances were that Linda belonged on it just as much as the three teenagers did. He only _wanted_ something exciting to happen, _wanted_ the words the older boys said to mean something profound. Something that made sense. That didn't mean it would.

Matt dropped his notebook back into his bag, and the pen into the open drawer. Closing it, Matt picked up his apple again, rubbing the part that had rested on the tabletop against his striped shirt. So there was a lot he didn't know. He took a deep breath. It was okay; he would figure it out.

He looked at the apple, and took another bite.

----M----

**December 1, 1998**

He didn't understand the material. It was DNA science, but for the life of him, he didn't understand it. What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

Matt stared at his homework problems for another long minute, no longer noticing the orange tint the page held. The math wasn't the hard part, as long as he could figure out which formula he needed to use. But he'd been staring at the problem for nearly ten minutes, trying to think his way into, through, out of, and around it with no success.

"Graaaah!" Matt shouted, letting out a wordless cry to vent his frustration. He stared at the book again, the same words running all over the page and slinking across his eyes in patterns that taunted him with his own confusion. Suddenly Matt couldn't take it anymore. He hurled the textbook across the room.

It landed with a satisfying thud in the corner, the crisp pages wrinkling and bending. He'd even heard the unquestionable sound of paper tearing.

Part of Matt said he was being childish, but the majority of him wasn't satisfied yet. The book wasn't enough. On an impulse, he pulled all the blankets off his bed and threw them around the room as well, then grabbed his pillow and hollered into it as loud as he could. His fists tightened around fabric as he yelled before the pillow too was sent on its way, thudding into a wall. His whole body seemed to shake, feeling as though it were about to explode with hot energy that he couldn't contain any longer.

Fuck his homework. He didn't need to know all that shit to extract his revenge. Fuck his teachers. They were idiots, the whole lot of them. Fuck his classes. They were only taught by the stupid teachers. Fuck Mello. Fuck Near. Fuck Orphan. They weren't really smarter than him, just arrogant bastards. Fuck DNA science. Who cared about it _really_? And _fuck_ that fucking problem. The profanity he shouted in his mind bounced back savagely, the inflection of forbidden words giving him a bit of a thrill.

His bag nicked his wardrobe before striking the wall and slumping to the floor, his unfinished homework spilling out. Matt was panting in the middle of his room, his small chest heaving with the effort of his anger.

Without warning, tears began to fall and Matt crumpled to the floor. He didn't know why he was crying, but the tears just came harder until he was sobbing in a way he hadn't since Wammy had found him on Blair's last birthday.

Except Wammy was currently on some business trip, and Matt didn't know where. There was no one to comfort Matt now, even if he felt like he wanted it. Then again, it wasn't like he'd go running off to find Wammy... if anyone else saw him, word was sure to reach the other Letters and he'd look like a git. It was stupid really, these tears. He didn't need them. He waited a few minutes, taking deep breaths and closing his eyes to get it out of his system.

Hiccupping a little, Matt made his way slowly to his desk and his laptop. Some games would do him good, take his mind off the DNA problem and perhaps when he looked at it again with a fresh mind, it'd be a piece of cake.

He liked that thought. A piece of cake.

----M----

**December 14, 1998**

No one sang at Mello's 9th birthday party.

The four all felt like they were required to show up at each other's birthdays, knowing that Wammy expected them to be nice to one another. They weren't, but that wasn't the point; they kept up appearances and felt that Wammy never had to know they were only that. If Wammy ever found out how antagonistic they were towards each other, Matt was sure he'd feel incredibly ashamed, and yet there was no way he could imagine being nice to Mello. Or holding a long conversation with Near. Or not sneezing at Orphan. So their charade at friendliness was well done to prevent the one they all held dear from discovering the truth. Because despite their differences, they all jealously loved Wammy.

The cake was chocolate, with eight black candles sticking up around the edges and a single one protruding from the center.

"I think the candles should have spelled out your name, you know? They make candles in the shape of letters," Orphan was saying, even though Mello obviously wasn't paying attention. Like usual, it was Near who occupied most of his interest.

Orphan smirked, her browned childish face pushing out dimples. "Five candles would be closer to how you act, anyway."

Matt swore he caught Near's eyes blink in a way that normally signaled amusement, but he couldn't be sure. It was true that Mello's behavior was often immature and childish enough to resemble a five-year-old's, but at other times, Mello seemed to be the reason why Near was alive. The blond took care to make sure Near got food and to his classes on time. Matt was doubtful whether or not Near would leave his room without Mello there to lead him out of it. Even if it was only so Mello could bully the fragile pale boy.

Mello and Near's exclusive relationship was terribly strange, Matt realized for the first time. He blinked, watching Mello argue with Orphan. Mello's stance was rigid, but somehow that protective circle of defense included Near sitting at his feet. The true violence extended out towards the rest of the world. Near bore the obvious demonstrations of Mello's force, but he was also oddly protected and helped by the strength of the older boy. How had Matt become so accustomed to such a strange pair so quickly?

Or was this just another part of growing up? None of the adults commented or tried to change the relationship between Mello and Near and Matt didn't think he had enough experience with relationships to make judgments. He had never had a best friend himself, and only the scripted interactions of his video game characters as models.

He brushed it out of his mind. He couldn't do anything to change it and it wasn't worth much thinking about. His usual problem surfaced in its place: Kiss. And the Letters.

He glanced over at Near. Was he in communication with Linda? The more Matt looked at the white-clad boy behind Mello's legs, the less likely he thought it was. How would Near escape Mello to talk to Linda if the idea of speaking to anyone even crossed his mind?

Near looked back, a dark eye peering through his lamb-like tufts of hair. The eye was flat, unquestioning, and simplistic. Matt ignored it and continued evaluating. Had that eye also seen Kiss?

There was really only one way to find out. But of course he couldn't speak to Near straight out; Mello never allowed that, except in class when professors were present.

Orphan had begun dishing out the cake, passing Matt the last piece. He took a bite and began casually. "Hey, have any of you heard of Kiss?"

Orphan turned to him first, giving him a flat look. "Please tell me you don't mean the band, Matt. They're bloody awful."

Matt smiled inwardly, checking her off his mental list as she turned away to attack her cake. She didn't have a clue. So much for her being the current number one.

He turned to the contrasting pair. Mello was scrutinizing him carefully, trying not to give away whether he knew what Matt was talking about or not. Mello wouldn't talk until he was sure he knew more than Matt. Matt couldn't cross him off the list. He looked down, and met Near's eyes.

Matt blinked in shock. The dark eyes that were always so dull and lifeless had suddenly become wide and full of liquid depth. _Yes_, he mouthed clearly, silently.

Mello hadn't seen. Near hadn't wanted Mello to see him answer. Matt blinked again, his heart picking up speed. _Mello didn't know._ But Near would tell _Matt._ Triumph flooded through his body as his eyes remain locked with Near's. The moment crashed over him like a tidal wave, forceful and unrelenting, a strange white noise blocking out everything that wasn't Near's gaze. In that instant, Matt knew instinctively that Near understood him completely. The world outside them shook with the force of their shared gaze and Matt forgot to breath. The overwhelming feeling that he'd always been underestimating the other fragile-seeming boy clawed up from the pit of his stomach and seized ahold of Matt's mind. With eyes like that... Matt's thoughts stopped, his body frozen, and nothing existed besides those impossibly deep and black eyes. He had the strange urge to remove his goggles, feeling that even his orange lenses were hindering the full force of the smallest boy.

The eyes were suddenly jerked out of his vision and the invisible line connecting the two of them snapped. Mello was dragging the white boy forcibly from the room. Matt blinked, and then Near hit the wall across from the door. Mello's figure was a line of finely wrought tension, barely contained in his wiry body as his hand shot out and dragged Near to his feet. The angry child held up Near, their faces inches apart, and whispered something, malice and condemnation threaded through his caustic tones. Near looked bored, his flat eyes peering down the hallway, but he doubled over in pain as Mello socked him in the gut. The vision disappeared as Mello hauled the pale boy off down the hallway.

The scene was deathly still in the aftermath. It was several deafening seconds of silence later that Matt hesitantly set his plate of cake down. Orphan turned to him, her face wide with shock.

"Wha-what just happened?"

Matt didn't move. He was still trying to figure it out for himself.

"Matt!" Orphan's voice was persistent, and a little angry to mask her fear, either for him or for herself, he wasn't sure. She stepped between him and the door, directly into his vision, so that he had to look at her. She grabbed his shoulders and shook. "Matt! Answer me! What the _hell_ is going on?"

He focused on her face. He almost started to say that it didn't concern her, but... something about the way her expression looked scared and hurt stopped him. In some ways, they were all like Linda. She was just a girl too. "I can't tell you everything, Orphan, because I want to figure it out on my own. But... there's some kind of..." He rejected the word 'conspiracy' before he got close to saying it aloud, "...something going on at Wammy's. Something that happened a long time before we all got here."

Orphan watched his eyes carefully, probably for any hints that he was lying. She took a deep breath, her hands still on his shoulder. "Okay, Matt. I believe you. But... that doesn't mean I'm not going to beat you at finding out what it is!"

Matt smiled in relief before rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure." This was the Orphan he knew and the return of her competitive and slightly annoying streak was reassuring.

She grinned back smugly, released him a little self-consciously and hurried back to her cake. "Looks like we get to enjoy the rest of the party ourselves, eh?"

"I think we'd have to redefine 'enjoy' and probably 'party,' too," Matt retorted, looking at his own cake. He picked it up and poked at it, not exactly hungry anymore. "But I think it's definitely improved now that Mello isn't here."

"It'll take more than that to make me leave, _Matt._"

Matt jumped, the unmistakable icy voice that addressed him emanating from the doorway. Mello was leaning against the door, looking like a sleek panther, muscles coiled for the spring. Matt tried to find his voice and resist the urge to run for his life. There was a hint of the deadly in Mello's quiet and calm movements, as if everything he did had a beautiful and carefully calculated plan. He swallowed, feeling the effects of fear and adrenaline kick into his system.

Matt didn't know that anyone of Mello's size could move so fast. Matt's body had been screaming for his flight instinct to take over, but abruptly it was too late. Mello was suddenly in his space and swinging. It was all Matt could do to throw up an arm to keep his face from being broken.

"Stop it!" Orphan screamed at the two of them as Matt became bold and angry enough to sneak another punch back while Mello's guard was up, his mouth twisting into a snarl of its own. Mello took the glancing blow on his side. "I-I'm going to get Roger!"

"Yeah, run, you coward," Mello sneered, his face twisting with rage as it never left Matt's. Orphan's footfalls pattered wildly out of the room and down the hall.

"What the hell were you talking to him about?!" Mello questioned angrily, trying to grapple with Matt, who kept dancing away out of reach. His life depended on avoiding those punches; his arm already throbbed from the block he had managed.

"Near doesn't talk, you git!" Matt replied, dodging and running to the other side of the room. Mello followed in scorching pursuit.

"You're a bloody liar, Matt, and if you don't answer me, I'm going to beat the fucking shit out of you until you wish you'd never heard of Wammy's." Mello's calm was lost completely, his temper fully discharged and senseless with fury. He advanced on Matt, a panther stalking its prey, determined and purposeful.

"They'll expel you if you do," Matt answered, hoping logic might make the other boy pause. His eyes found the exit, but he didn't think he could reach it before Mello reached him. "Then _you'll_ be the one who's never heard of Wammy's."

Mello narrowed his eyes and smiled. Matt's stomach turned inside out and froze. People didn't smile like that... not so grimly wicked and happy about it. Mello closed in, his smile that of a monster. His voice was low, whispered, and mockingly sweet. "Oh, no, Matt. They wouldn't expel me... and especially not if you're already gone. You see, they wouldn't dare try to replace me again."

Matt couldn't breath and his chest locked up. His mind could only slowly process the words. Mello was close enough for the fight to continue and yet Matt couldn't move. Already gone? Replacement? All the Letters... they were beginning to make sense. Horror filled his eyes from the inside, and they no longer revealed just the reflected image of Mello's frightening face. Mello and Matt. Two Ms. Replacement.

Matt was the backup? He wasn't... worth....

An echo from the month before flittered through his mind. Dark chocolate eyes and a darker voice. _"No, it'll be _that_ one."_ Dan had known... he knew why Mello resented the younger, smarter boy with red hair. The teenager had already calculated Mello's violence into the equation, had predicted, _bet on_ the belief that Mello... would kill Matt. That Matt would go first. The floor was shaking beneath Matt's feet, the physical world too small to contain all that he had discovered. If he were to trust Dan's assessment, the monster would not only try to kill him, but succeed.

A fist slammed into his jaw and Matt saw stars. Disconcertingly, the wall slid against his side, and he scrabbled at it for some kind of support, but it was too smooth. He leaned heavily, and staggered, barely managing to keep his feet. He blinked, and threw his arms up to cover his head and neck. He saved himself from another blow to a vital area, but his arm throbbed in painful protest. A foot found his shin however, and he yelped in pain and tried to stand on one foot. It was a mistake as he easily lost his balance with the next few blows. Matt crumpled to the floor, keeping his back to the wall and curling into the fetal position. Bruising hands ripped his goggles off his eyes, dangling somewhere around his neck, twisted around so that he lost even their protection. He squeezed his eyes shut, numbly hoping that he wouldn't cry. Pain washed over Matt, like water soaking into his skin during a rainstorm. Once he was completely wet though, the following drops weren't as obvious. The blows dulled. A sharp crack signified a goggle lens had broken and suddenly Matt's mind rebooted.

"I _am_ going to replace you, Mello," he gasped, his body aching, his mind reeling but focusing on what made him better than the boy above him. "You're the one who isn't fit for a detective's work. Acting like this... you're... a criminal."

The frenzy above him stopped. Matt didn't dare open his eyes or move a muscle, unsure when and where the next blow would fall. Would it be his last moment in the world? Had he pushed Mello too far? Or brought him back just enough?

"Mello!" Roger's shocked yet authoritative voice brought Matt out of his head and he opened his eyes, squinting towards the doorway. Other staff ran into the room, surrounding Mello and rushing to help Matt off the floor. He saw Orphan's thin form near Roger, looking a mix between pleased at her handiwork and concerned that she had been late. Roger came over to Matt himself, crouching down to where Matt was sitting up.

"Matt, are you okay?" The old man's eyes took in Matt's face, stopping at a bruise slowly forming on the boy's temple. He sighed. "No, you're not okay. Can you walk?"

Matt nodded silently and Roger held out a hand to pull the boy to his feet. The caretaker turned to the other staff members who seemed unsure of what to do with Mello. "Lock him into his room. I'll talk with him when I bring him dinner."

A second thought occurred to Matt and he blurted it out without thinking. "Make sure Near's alright, too."

Roger turned to look back at Matt, a question in his eyes, but he simply nodded once and glanced back to the other adults. "Go check on Near while you're there. Come on, Matt."

Roger took Matt back to the administration building and tried to patch him up as best he could. Matt wasn't bleeding much beyond a friction burn from Mello's kicks against his jeans, but bruises were beginning to show all over his arms and legs. He winced every time he moved, and sitting still in Roger's cool office while the man checked him out had only intensified the problem. He was starting to get stiff.

The man finished his checkup and looked closely at Matt. His voice was the epitome of an adult sweetly demanding an answer from a child. "Will you tell me what happened, Matt?"

It wasn't how Matt was used to being spoken to anymore. It caught Matt off guard and he nearly mimicked the question back to the older man. Instead, he paused, wondering why Roger was treating him as a normal child.

The man seemed to catch Matt's hesitation and then his quiet, passive look. He sighed, closing his eyes and looking away. "You won't tell me." He leaned back into his leather chair, the springs creaking. "You'll only talk to Quillsh about everything, won't you."

He looked back at the silent child. Matt waited, not sure whether he was supposed to answer. It seemed that Roger didn't expect him to talk to anyone but Wammy. Judging from the spoken clues Roger had just given him, Matt figured he wasn't supposed to talk to anyone but Wammy about things that concerned the Letters. It was certainly true that he would never lie to Wammy, even if the kind man asked about a fight between him and Mello. Wammy was the only one Matt knew he could trust with everything... even though he didn't tell him. He only didn't volunteer information because he didn't want to hurt his caretaker.

"I... I hope he knows what he's doing with you children. You can leave, Matt." Roger continued to stare away, his gaze caught on the dreary sky outside the window. He looked old, the winter light harsh in its cast of his features.

"Yes, sir." Matt stood, his joints protesting silently. He wobbled a little, but hid it well as he walked from the office. He had a lot to think about.

----M----

* * *

_So... by now, you're all probably used to my incredibly slow updates. But reviews encourage me to write more and that's always good for you and for me. And don't hesitate to send me angry messages to get my butt in gear and continue writing. There's nothing like weekly harassment that keeps me writing. *grin* As always, I hope you all enjoyed reading... your reviews will be proof of whether you did or didn't._

_Special thanks to: Living in a fantasy, SlvrSoleAlchmst1 (for a review and a beta), and BlackRoseMuffin for review of the last chapter. I think that may be an all-time low for reviews for a chapter. BUT THANK YOU!_

_One more thing... I have a short story about I, J, and K mostly written. Due to major spoilers, I'm not posting it yet, but if people are interested, let me know and I'll make sure I have it ready when it won't be spoilertastic. Or I might be able to leave off the planned ending with the spoilers. Anyway, sound interesting??_

_~anja-chan_


	10. Chapter 10

**Letters**

**10**

----M----

**July 1, 2007**

Matt woke up groggily, light slipping through the slivers at the curtain edges and tickling his senses awake. He'd fallen asleep with his goggles on again and his laptop humming away on the bed next to him. Just like he'd left it before dozing off in the early hours of the morning. He tried to swallow around his thick tongue, but it felt like someone had stuffed his mouth with a used dishrag while he was sleeping. Matt rolled over onto his back, stretching his spine and cramped muscles, before reaching up and massaging the skin under his goggles. The relief of pressure was welcome as he debated whether he needed to go brush his teeth or have a cigarette.

The decision to do both reached him shortly and he hoisted himself off the mattress. The movement woke his computer and Matt found himself staring at the screen he had left the night before.

More details of Mello's life, the bits and pieces he'd scraped together while constantly on the move.

He closed the laptop, and proceeded to the bathroom. His toothbrush beckoned him and he picked it up, squirting a bit of paste onto the bristles.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and let the hollow image stare back. He looked like hell caught in a shitstorm. His hair was oily and mussed, his skin too pale, and his eyes had the dark red lines surrounding them, making them look more sunken. He shoved the toothbrush into his mouth and splashed some cold water on his face in an effort to restore himself.

If this is what _reading_ about Mello did to him, then no wonder Mello had always been so fucked up.

He looked back up into the dark mirror, the flecks of water catching the hints of gold light from the main room. A drop slid down his cheek, running along his jaw, and for a moment Matt couldn't recognize himself at all. Who was this redhead that had usurped Mail's place? Had his eyes always been that green? The seconds clicked by and Matt grabbed a hand towel from the rack. He looked like he always did, with some extra wear and tear peeking through his exhaustion and around the towel. He dropped it on the counter and finished brushing his teeth. The need for a cigarette was growing more apparent.

He wandered back into the room, feeling somewhat refreshed, but still unbalanced. How long had it been since he'd packed up and left with Mello's stolen information safely stored in his laptop? Each time he'd done some more digging into Mihael Keehl, he'd switched locations. He didn't know if the hacker-wannabe at Wammy's had managed to leech the same information while Matt was downloading it. Because of that Matt was forced to assume that his opponent had access to everything he did. Each search for something related to Mello's childhood could be red-flagged and could send warnings to the Wammy's House representative. Matt just didn't know, and so he was forced to keep moving through a string of endless hotels, trying to fit the pieces of Mello's past together like one of Near's puzzles.

Matt searched his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter. He found the lighter and an empty package. He sighed, rifling through his bag and the pockets of clothes he was no longer wearing until he found his personal addiction.

From what Matt had figured out, Mello's life had been worse than his own. He'd been born into a country just as Communism had become defunct throughout it and the rest of Eastern Europe. Slovenia declared independence from Yugoslavia and then began the Ten Day War. It wasn't a big event for most of the world. In comparison to other revolutions across the world, the change happened quickly and fairly easily. But there _were_ casualties. And that's where Matt had found Mello's father.

_Damijan Keehl, upstanding citizen, dies at 33. A loyal citizen, Keehl was killed in an unprecedented attack on a church by the Yugoslav People's Army last Sunday. He died protecting his family, country, and faith against the enemy. Twelve other citizens were murdered in this horrible tragedy. He leaves behind his wife Isidor, 31, and son Mihael, 19 months. He will be greatly missed by family and friends._

A single obituary had held so much information. Wading through the paper's bias and foreign language had revealed that Mihael had been caught in unlucky circumstances since an early age. More digging into various state records had shown Isidor's subsequent, yet unpredictable medical records and a change of address. Taking baby Mihael with her, Isidor had fled across Slovenia's borders into Austria, where her brother and his wife lived. Roughly five years later, Isidor died. Her access to medicine and qualified doctors looked to have been insufficient. From what little medicinal jargon he could understand, Matt had deduced the woman had been injured in the same incident that had claimed the life of her husband. She hadn't been able to recover, instead prolonging her suffering by a few years as infection and disease ate away at her body.

Mihael had turned six and for two years, he only seemed to exist in the records of the Austrian justice department. His aunt and uncle were the kind of people who didn't pay taxes regularly and who gave Matt the impression they skipped community functions. Closed, unfriendly people. They hadn't enrolled Mihael in school. It seemed as if no one knew or cared about his existence.

And then the aunt and uncle died in a car accident. Mihael had been swooped up and carried off to Wammy's House, his gifted intellect somehow recognized beneath the dirt and poverty. He'd been transformed into the recognizable Mello.

This history was true, flawlessly so. It wasn't as if Wammy's House adopted children who _weren't _orphans, so discovering the pile of family deaths shouldn't have surprised him. It was horrifying to imagine the scenario, but it couldn't surprise him.

His cigarette was nearly finished. He took one more deep pull and blew out the smoke from his lips in a stream.

It was time to move again.

----M----

"_All this that is ceases to be,_

_All is revealed,_

_The obvious door opens nothing,_

_Nothing... nothing left... nothing left..._

_Nothing left to chance."_

----M----

**January 12, 1999**

"We then know that _x_ is greater or equal to the derivative, but less than six." The math instructor tried to look each of his students in the eye, but finally settled on Orphan to nod at. Near wasn't interested in eye contact, Mello was watching the man icily and Matt could only guess that his goggles threw the man off. They weren't even two weeks into the new quarter and the new teacher had stopped smiling at them, his lessons becoming increasingly lackluster. It was becoming obvious that the man didn't like teaching them. Matt couldn't figure out why; what instructor wouldn't want to teach intelligent, gifted children? In Matt's opinion, it would beat having to explain the same concept innumerable times for it to sink in. The teacher turned away as if he'd rather stare at the whiteboard instead of them.

Matt jotted the new equation down in his notes. It had taken a few weeks for the soreness to disappear after his battle with Mello, so Matt had diligently returned to his schoolwork. He knew he couldn't win physically against Mello, but since the urge was still there, he became determined to beat Mello mentally. Matt had finished up the term with flying colors and had nosed in front of Mello. Orphan still held the lead, but Matt was now second and Mello third.

Once the initial gratification had worn off, however, Matt realized he had become more focused on beating Mello than he had about Kiss and the Letters. It was during winter holiday, just before the new term started, that Matt had first tried to approach Near since Mello's birthday.

And it was then that Matt realized that getting the opportunity to speak alone with Near was more or less impossible.

Mello guarded his companion like some dark shepherd with a newborn lamb. Whenever Matt tried to catch Near's eye, mime a phrase, allude to the matter, or pass a note, it never seemed to reach his intended target. Mello's pale eyes were too watchful, nothing escaped him, and his intent on keeping Matt and Near separate was obvious. The last two weeks had been full of nothing but a close observation of Near's pale skin, dark eyes, and the splotching of bruises that sometimes accompanied the boy always in Mello's company. Mello himself never said a word, and kept himself as removed from Matt as possible. Obviously, this meant that Near was kept at the same distance.

It was frustrating, but Matt was wary of Mello. With Matt already beating him in the rankings, it wouldn't take much for the blond to be pushed over the edge and Matt honestly didn't want to find out if he would survive another beating.

He swallowed, wondering if that was what had happened to Kiss. Had Ivan beaten her to death over rankings? It was surreal to imagine. Surely, Wammy wouldn't bring in another violent kid if Kiss' death hadn't been an accident? Matt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Wammy was plenty smart enough to learn from a mistake of that magnitude, and it was more likely that the regs just liked spreading stories about _those_ kids on the fourth floor. What had probably been an accident had morphed and been exaggerated into a story meant to scare other students.

Matt glanced out of the corner of his eye to where Near was crouching on the floor in their classroom. He wasn't looking at Matt, focused instead on the methodic placement of puzzle pieces while their teacher droned on. Matt didn't dare try to make any movement that would alert the other boy. It was far more likely that Mello would notice it.

The last puzzle piece clicked into place and Near glanced up at the teacher for a moment. His silver curls swayed softly at the movement, revealing a dark spot near his temple. It hadn't been there the day before. Another bruise then.

"If you find yourself at a dead end, look at the problem from a different angle. In this case, we need to go back to the beginning and see what equations we now have to work with," the teacher continued, scrawling on the whiteboard with numbers and symbols without glancing back at his students.

At that moment, Matt realized the futility of his actions toward Near and the wisdom of his math instructor. The concept of using different approaches applied to every kind of problem-solving, not just math. Of course. Matt felt a little stupid for not realizing it sooner, but what were his other options?

...There was always the former Letters. Dan, Crick, and Grant surely knew something. But would they ever talk to him? Or just.... Matt held himself still so that the icy feeling that passed through his body wouldn't be noticeable to the others. If he were dealing with those three, he would have to be especially careful. It wouldn't be like asking Linda. No, Matt felt instinctively that the three older boys were somehow hazardous. His stomach twisted and the thrill of danger brushed up his spine as he remembered Dan's liquid dark eyes raking over him.

"So," the teacher said, finally turning to face his small class, "Can anyone tell me what we're left with?"

Probably something better than counting Near's bruises, Matt thought, but didn't say anything. It was a relief, however, to know that he no longer had to.

----M----

**February 1, 1999**

Matt relaxed his grip and the last page of the paperback flipped close. And thus ended another mystery, solved by Dr. Slyvia Strange. The books about the psychologist-detective had been passed around the fourth floor. Orphan had started the crime novel craze, and then shoved one of the books at Matt. Since Orphan was higher in the rankings, Matt figured it couldn't hurt to read them like she did. Matt's second place had probably been what prompted Mello to pick up one of Orphan's cast-off novels too. Matt didn't have a clue if Near read at all, but sometimes he thought he saw the smallest boy nod when he and Orphan were discussing the latest novel they'd both read before class.

Matt set the book on his desk just as a knock sounded on his door.

"C'mon Matt, it's your birthday, isn't it? Let's go already." Orphan's voice was muffled through his door.

"'Kay! Just a second," Matt replied, picking up his goggles and wiggling them on over his head. He turned the light up to a more normal setting, and opened his door.

"Who would have thought that I'd have to drag you out of your room for your own party, Matt? Seriously, what were you up to?" Orphan rolled her eyes dramatically and began walking off down the hallway.

Matt paused to lock his door. "I just finished the third Strange novel."

"Oh yeah? Did you like it?"

"It was alright," Matt answered.

Orphan just rolled her eyes again. "The next one should be out before too long. I'm going to have Wammy get it for me."

Matt didn't have much of response to Orphan's usual chatter. They began walking down the stairs together.

"So, do you think Wammy'll let us go out to see a movie sometime? We don't ever leave, really, but I bet if we asked, he'd let us." Orphan was usually full of the strangest ideas.

"What would you go see?" Matt asked absently.

"Have you seen the trailers for The Matrix? Keanu Reeves is so cool," Orphan said, drawing out her 'so' for dramatic effect.

"Yeah," Matt said, nodding.

"Americans are so much better looking than our actors, I think." Orphan screwed up her face into a frown. "It's not fair."

"You watch British movies too, Orphan," Matt pointed out at they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Yeah, but it's representative, you know?" she replied, sighing dramatically. "Movies just prove that Americans are more handsome than Brits."

"That's not true." Matt felt the need to defend his male compariots. "Look, even in the orphanage, we've got some handsome guys."

Orphan raised her eyebrow and gave him a flat look. "Oh puh-leeze."

"Really!" Matt searched his head for a good example. "Um, like... Dan! Dan's good looking and if you don't know Mello, he's not bad either."

Orphan had stopped walking to stare at Matt like he was some kind of strange new species. Matt stopped too.

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

There was another moment of silence before peals of Orphan's laughter echoed down the first floor hallways. Matt stood there, uncomprehending of why she was laughing, only knowing that she was laughing at him.

"You- you just said you thought Dan _and _Mello were handsome! Bloody hell, Matt, you're going to give me a heart attack here!" Orphan continued laughing, gasping for air between words.

Matt felt his face turn a horrible red that he knew must clash with his hair. "I-I did _not_! You're just misunderstanding! It's not weird to think they're not ugly or anything!"

"But you're a _boy_," Orphan continued, still laughing.

"So? You're a girl, but I bet you still think Cassandra is prettier than you." Matt's embarrassment had transformed into a need to get back at her.

"She's _not_ prettier than me!" Orphan retorted, but her laughter had ceased. She sent Matt a quick glare. "Hmph. If it wasn't your birthday, I'd slap you."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Orphan. I'm going to go eat some cake now."

Without waiting for the girl, Matt opened the door and crossed the lawn to the classrooms. On one hand, Matt was excited. On the other, he knew exactly what birthdays at Wammy's House were like. He'd already been to Near's, Orphan's, and Mello's, and they were affairs where no one else had been particularly excited. It would look childish and immature if he let himself be as excited as the regs were for their birthday functions.

Orphan caught up to him as he opened the door. They walked down the hall and into one of the classrooms. Mello and Near were already inside, contrasting in black and white like usual.

"Hey," Matt said to them both, but neither one in particular. Ever since he'd stopped paying close attention to Near, Matt had found that Mello had let up on him. They were on speaking terms again, even thought they'd never be friends.

"Happy birthday," Mello offered sourly without turning to face the birthday boy. Near gave a tiny smirk and nodded once.

The cake was sitting out along with paper plates and plastic ware. It looked like Wammy had prepared the typical birthday feast for Matt. Sure enough, Matt could tell it was a vanilla and apple cake, just like he'd asked for. Unable to help himself, Matt smiled.

"You should light the candles, Matt, and then we'll sing for you," Orphan said brightly, their previous argument forgotten in the typical Orphan way. Quick to anger, but also quick to forgive.

Matt picked up the box of matches left on the table next to the cake and lit up his nine candles.

"Okay, ready everyone?" Orphan said brightly. She immediately began singing and Matt had the impression she wouldn't have minded finishing by herself if Mello and Near hadn't joined in.

"Make a wish!" she finished.

Matt thought for a moment. He hadn't thought about what he would wish for... not that he _really_ believed anything would happen. Still, it was only a split second before he held his wish in his mind.

_Let me find my family's killer._

Matt blew out the candles, feeling a sense of relief when they all went out. Staking the man with the hat on whether all his birthday candles went out suddenly seemed terrifying. What a bad omen that would have been if he _hadn't _gotten them all, but it was good because he had.

Matt reminded himself that he didn't believe in lame superstitions like that.

"Think you can handle that knife yourself?" Mello asked derisively.

"Yeah and I can cut you next if you want," he replied easily as Orphan smacked Mello on the shoulder.

"It's _his_ birthday. He could decide not to give you cake, you git," Orphan hissed. Mello shrugged off the light blow and suggestion easily.

Picking up the knife, Matt cut the cake into four pieces, handing them out. They all dug into the moist layers and there was silence for a while as everyone savored Matt's favorite flavors.

"It's cake for _him_, you know," Orphan said in her typical know-it-all fashion. She swallowed, and then helped herself to another bite of birthday cake.

Mello looked superior, his chin lifting as he spoke condescendingly. "Yeah, we _do_ know, Orphan. Stop saying obvious things."

"I've got cats," Orphan continued, ignoring Mello. "What've you got, Matt?"

"Games," he said, wondering why Orphan was asking. She already _knew_ how addicted he was to his outlet. He took a mouthful of cake, the bits of baked apple delicious on his tongue.

She nodded and turned to Mello. "What've you got?"

Mello smiled and typically when that happened, a chill went through the room. "Near."

There was a long pause.

Orphan busied herself with her piece of cake. "And what's Near got?"

Mello continued to smile. A creepy-crawly feeling scaled its way up Matt's spine.

It was a shock to hear an answer, let alone to hear Near answering a question directed to Mello on his own. A smile pulled the corners of Near's pale lips up, satisfaction overflowing from the little, unpracticed grin.

"Optimus Prime."

Somehow, even Mello laughed at that. And looking back at the end of the day, Matt considered his birthday to be a success.

----M----

**April 16, 1999**

"You've been weird lately," Orphan said, peering at him with her large honey-brown eyes. She seemed to be searching his goggled face carefully for evidence explaining why. Matt just stared back until Orphan looked down at the cat in her lap and busied herself with petting Kismet under her chin. "I just meant that you always seem to be thinking of something else. It's like you're not here anymore or something, you know?"

Matt didn't know, but he supposed it was true. Days, weeks, months even, had passed and Matt still hadn't plucked up the courage to speak to the three oldest Letters. Surprisingly, it wasn't Crick or Grant that had Matt the most worried, even though Crick was obviously mentally off, and Grant was heavyset with muscles. Matt's preoccupation was with Dan and his lying eyes. They danced with a dangerous fire and Matt wasn't sure what would happen if he were confronted with the handsome teenager again.

"Sorry," he mumbled to Orphan. "I'm..." Matt searched for the right words to say to Orphan without letting her guess his detective mission. "...trying to figure out the best way to talk to someone."

Orphan's eyebrows shot up. "To who?"

Matt paused, frowning at her reaction. "Someone," he said carefully.

Orphan seemed more determined to press him further. "Yeah, but who, Matt?"

Matt shook his head and then Orphan grabbed him by the arm, her expression turning sly. "C'mon, Matt, you can tell me. We're friends, right?"

The redhead gave her a strange look. Sure, they were friends, but they were also rivals, and he wouldn't just give out his information to her for free.

Orphan rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You're being stupid. I can help with these kinds of things. I _am_ a girl, you know."

Matt was utterly confused by her logic for a moment, but then it hit him. "Orphan! I'm not talking about liking a girl or anything!"

His outburst startled Kismet, who jumped out of Orphan's lap and crouched behind the cross-legged girl. Orphan stared at Matt levelly. "Who else would you afraid of talking to? And you're blushing, by the way."

"I am not!" Matt said hotly, even though he knew that it was probably true. "It just looks that way because of my hair!"

"So?" Orphan teased. "Who is it? Who does little Matty have a crush on?"

"I do _not_ have a crush, Orphan, and I'm older than you are!"

Orphan's girlish smirk and teasing attitude suddenly stopped. She pulled Kismet back into her lap. "But you must think at least _someone's _pretty, right?"

Matt blinked, confused by her odd mood swing. He wondered what the right answer was, and so hazarded a noncommittal one. "Er, I... I guess so?"

A moment of silence went by and then Matt sneezed. His eyes seemed to catch on after the allergic reaction and began filling with water. "I should probably go before I die in here, Orphan," Matt said, nodding at the fluffy gray and white animal.

"Whatever," Orphan said, not looking up at him, "But you know you should probably talk to that person sooner rather than later. I mean, what if they change their mind?"

"Like I said," Matt replied, "It's not about a girl."

"Bye, Matt."

"Bye," he answered. Matt stood, wiping his nose on his sleeve and watching the girl still on the floor. Her black hair spilled over part of her face, darker against her dark skin, and down to her shoulders as she bent over the cat. He turned to go, and suddenly wondered if her earlier question had been self-directed. Matt hadn't thought about it before, but he guessed Orphan was pretty. Had she been fishing for compliments from him with her question?

He opened the door and pushed Orphan from his mind. The talk with her had made him realize that he was wasting time. He hadn't gotten anywhere in his deciphering the Letters or Kiss' death. Swallowing, Matt turned his feet towards the stairway. It was almost eight o'clock, the time when Matt would usually hide out with a game or do homework in his room. He turned away from his door, and passed the other letter M instead.

Crick, Dan, and Grant all lived on the floor below. In Building A, it was the only floor exclusively for boys. Building B was situated in the same fashion, with the girls' dormitory on the first two floors and boys on the third and fourth floors. The only floor without gender segregation was Matt's, but then again, nearly everything about the fourth floor was different.

He descended the stairs and looked down the hallway. Despite having lived in the same building, Matt hardly ever ventured into the other hallways. There was never a reason to associate with the other orphans. He thrust down a growing seed of fear and vowed to knock on the first door he found belonging to the older boys. He peered cautiously at the names on doors through orange lenses. Instead of the single gothic letters of his own floor, everyone who was normal got their full first names. Neither were they listed somewhat alphabetically.

His eyes landed on "Dan" and Matt felt his stomach curl. Suddenly he wished he hadn't just promised he would try the first door, but now that he was here, Matt wouldn't let himself back down. It was now or never, he thought, taking a deep breath. He straightened his goggles and flattened his mussy hair in an attempt to look more presentable. What if Dan thought he looked like too much of a kid to even talk to him? Matt wasn't sure whether it would be worse if he were turned away or smiled at by the older boy.

Assured that he looked as good as possible, Matt reached up and knocked. There was some shuffling inside the room, and then heavy footsteps towards the door. It opened.

Dan stood blocking the doorway and looked down, his eyes darkening with some kind of pleasure at seeing the smaller boy. He smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and crooned softly, "And what have we got here? A lost little lamb?"

Matt held his ground, but his voice shook as he answered. The smile directed at him was making his stomach churn in strange ways. "I want to talk."

"Then come right in, little lamb. The lion's den is waiting." Dan stepped back, throwing one hand towards the inside of his room as if ushering in a foreign dignitary.

Matt gulped, but strode purposefully into the dorm room. A brown quilt covered a neatly made bed in one corner. In the corner opposite, Dan had positioned his dark wooden desk and matching chair, a black velvet cushion on the seat. Matt identified some landscape paintings artfully arranged on the walls from the Romantic era; they featured dark craggy cliffs overlooking cloudy seas and misty fields.

The door closed behind him and Matt spun around. Dan noticed, his eyes skimming over Matt as he walked languidly over to his chair, pulling it out and sitting on it. "So? What did you want to talk about, little lamb? How big the lion's teeth are?"

Matt shook his head, keeping his eyes on Dan by sheer force of will. "I want to know about the fourth floor and—"

Dan laughed, but it wasn't unkind. He continued in his slow, smooth voice, superbly calm and arrogant. "You're the one who lives there. What makes you think I know more than you?"

Matt hesitated for a moment. Dan's intonation had hinted at things beyond Matt's comprehension even as his words had held the opposite meaning. Matt plowed forward; he had already gotten this far. "You... used to live there, right? And I want to know about Kiss, too."

Dan gave Matt an appraising look and Matt felt like he had won something important. His voice was heavier when he spoke, the gravity weighing his words down. "You're asking a lot about things people shouldn't ask. Are you sure you want to know, little lamb?"

Matt nodded slowly, not exactly liking the way Dan spoke seriously. The older boy's mocking tone had vanished, even as he spoke the patronizing nickname. Dan was finally treating him less like a child, but it only gave off the impression that Matt was making an adult decision—one that he wasn't sure he was prepared for. What was he getting himself into? Matt brushed his concerns aside. Dan watched his face carefully and Matt got the uncomfortable feeling that Dan could read his thoughts.

"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you," Dan said, his grin appearing again and growing larger. He looked distinctly catlike, ready to play with the mouse who had come willingly out of his dark hole.

"Yeah, I used to live upstairs. It was four years ago though, and Crick was up there with me. In fact, there were five of us, and, well, Lawrence, of course," Dan said slowly. Matt got the impression the older boy was trying to draw out everything, like telling a ghost story. But even though Matt understood the process, it worked all too well and he suppressed a shiver. Dan still seemed to catch Matt's reaction anyway and his eyes darkened as his smile grew. "If you think what happened to Kiss was bad, be glad you never met Backup or Excalibur. I can't say what the fourth floor is like now, but I was there when it all started.

"There were five of us, lambs like you... or maybe a bit older. Alec, Backup, Crick, me, and Excalibur. We all had some sort of idea of our job: to learn and become detectives like Lawrence. That's where Backup even got his name. If anything happened to Lawrence, we were supposed to take his place, be the backup. That's what the fourth floor is for."

Backup detectives? Matt didn't exactly like the idea. Sure, he knew he wanted to be like Lawrence, but... it wasn't like they couldn't be detectives at the same time. Of course, Matt would be a better detective than Orphan, Mello and Near, but there was no way to preclude them from being law enforcers of their own, albeit lower, caliber.

And what if Matt eventually exceeded Lawrence? Wasn't Wammy's a secret detective school instead of a replacement training facility? The idea of a replacement suddenly caught Matt off guard. After all, _Matt_ was the replacement... not for Lawrence, but for Mello. That would make Matt a backup replacement. It didn't sit well with him.

"But nothing's happened to Lawrence," Matt said cautiously. "So why aren't you still training?"

Dan chuckled darkly. "Of course nothing's happened to Lawrence."

Matt waited, unsure of what to say next since his previous question hadn't been answered yet.

Dan's smirk widened. The mouse was waiting for the game to continue. "This is what happens when the training doesn't _kill_ you, little lamb."

Matt felt his body tremble, a strange tightening and stretching spasm working its way through his system in a split second. It wasn't the normal kind of fear that tapped into the fight or flight response that Matt was experiencing. This was the fear that paralyzed and froze. Matt couldn't move and didn't think.

The older boy continued in Matt's silence, clearly relishing his power over the little redhead. His voice lowered to a whisper and he leaned into Matt's ear. "In my experience, if you live on the fourth floor, you either wind up dead or _reg_. And you've all passed the _reg_ stage."

Dan's breath rustled against his ear, teasing the hairs on the back of his neck. Matt swayed on his feet, his stomach twisting, his mind nearing numbness, his eyes staring unseeingly at the wall, and his hands relaxing into dull weights. He couldn't process the information or the sensation of Dan's presence enveloping him without touching.

The teenager leaned back slowly, the chair creaking as his weight resettled into it. Matt felt like he was being released from a spell. His breath came normally again, and his legs held him solidly. He took a steadying breath and looked at his taller predecessor with determination.

Dan let out a burst of honest laughter, his chocolate eyes filled with a hint of approval. "My, my, little lamb, you just might have enough backbone for me to recast my vote."

Matt held himself firmly, again feeling like he had won something. "Thank you," he acknowledged stiffly.

Dan laughed again, his dark eyes dancing with pleasure. "You may visit the lion's den again, little lamb."

Matt took it as his cue to leave, even though he still had questions. Dan hadn't said anything about Kiss, but... Matt felt like he would need time to digest everything that Dan had said about the other Letters. There were more names to add to his list. Matt's theory of alphabetically named detectives was proving to be true. They _were_ Letters.

It was only as he shut the door behind him that Matt realized what he had just won during his interview with Dan.

Respect.

----M----

But what exactly did the Letters mean?

Matt had found the old notebook he'd first written the Letters into, and opened it. He'd filled in the names Dan had supplied him with, but there were still two missing. Matt had also updated the rankings among the current fourth floor members, feeling smugly satisfied with his own advancement.

Alec

Backup

Crick

Dan

Excalibur

F – girl?

Grant

H – girl?

Ivan

Jiwon - graduated

Kiss – dead

Lawrence – BEST

Mello – 3

Near – 4

Orphan – 1

Matt – 2

When he caught upon Jiwon's name, Matt realized that Dan must have been lying about everyone winding up dead or _reg_. If Jiwon graduated, that would mean he became a full-fledged detective, right? Matt felt self-conscious because he had been so easily duped, but the stronger emotion of relief flooded through him. As far as Matt knew, only Kiss had died.

Despite that, Matt thought with a hint of irony, she was the only former Letter he had seen on the fourth floor.

Matt focused back on the notebook filled with names. It was nearly bedtime, but with his mind whirling, there was no way he would get to sleep. He knew he had gotten a lot of information from Dan, but... what to do with it all? Most of it seemed like confirmation of his theories. He _had_ been invited to ask more questions, and Matt knew he couldn't waste a resource as valuable as Dan despite his inaccuracies or methods. Matt felt like he could face the older boy again with the right preparation. As long as he stayed focused on what he was doing, Dan was less likely to sidetrack him into terror.

With that in mind, Matt began writing out a list of questions he wanted answered. He would ask, and if Dan didn't tell him, he'd simply move on to the next one. He made a note at the top to remind him that Dan could be inaccurate beyond the normal misinformation effect. Dan's prime motive seemed to be frightening Matt.

_How did Kiss die?_

_Where are the other Letters?_

_What happens after graduation?_

Matt stopped there, the future suddenly uncertain. It seemed almost too far ahead to think about seriously. Sure, he knew he was going to be a detective. But even with all the 'Detecting' classes, he couldn't grasp what it would actually entail. His experience was limited to solving mysteries in the books they all read.

Matt took a deep breath. He could write more questions as he got to them. It was probably time for sleep. Matt put the notebook into the drawer of his bedside table and reached for the lamp switch.

Except it was Friday night, he suddenly remembered. No school tomorrow, which meant he could game all night if he wanted.

Matt grabbed his gameboy and Super Mario Bros. Deluxe to escape into his game world. He had only gotten the game recently from Wammy, and hadn't yet beaten it. Making the pixeled Mario jump around and into pipes would be great stress relief. It was his normal outlet.

Matt couldn't contain his giggle at the next thought as he switched the game on and it beeped to life. It sure beat staring at Optimus Prime.

----M----

**June 16, 1999**

Matt had been dreading the day as it loomed closer and closer on his calendar. He had already decided he wouldn't be going to any of his classes.

Instead, he had asked Wammy for candles on Monday. Three of them: two big ones and one little one. Wammy had seemed to understand right away and hadn't asked any questions, reminding Matt gently to be careful with them in his room.

The night before, Matt had locked his door and set his alarm for midnight. It was now noon and the candles had dripped hot wax all over his desk. The smallest one had burned itself out and Matt had cried as if Blair Rose had died all over again when the light went out. His heart ached and his mind was numb with grief.

The man with the hat was still at large, Matt's family unavenged. Matt felt like a failure. He hadn't been trying to find the killer like a better son and brother would have. He hadn't even been working much on the matter of the Letters. If he were really intent on becoming a detective, he would have gone to see Dan again. But he hadn't, and so his Letters investigation had reached a standstill. It seemed as if Matt was failing at everything.

He didn't feel good enough yet; he wasn't satisfied with everything he'd done. His family was probably disappointed with Mail's achievements.

No, Matt realized carefully through his tears. Mail Jeevas had died along with his family. There would be only Matt until the killer was found. It was the name that defined him now. Mail had been the boy who had led a simple life with a normal family. It would be impossible for Matt to retake his name and to let Mail's family rest in peace until the man with the hat was either dead or locked away forever. Maybe Wammy had understood this conclusion and that's why he had allowed Matt a new name.

Matt didn't wipe his tears away, letting them continue down the streaks on his cheeks. He hurt in a terribly hollow way, but he didn't hold it back, knowing the pain would fuel his efforts and determination.

The candle he had dubbed Adair Jeevas sputtered, guttered, and died. Matt felt it as if something had suddenly vanished from his chest. He doubled over and sobbed, holding nothing back. He knew Cara Jeevas would follow shortly, her candle flickered dangerously.

It was a few minutes later when the candle finally flared once, brightly like a beacon in the night, before it drowned in its own wax with a hiss. Matt was plunged into complete darkness, alone with his hot tears and choked bawls.

A year had passed.

----M----

* * *

_And there's another chapter! Sorry for the ridiculously long wait between updates (although perhaps you're all used to it), but this is the longest chapter to date, so hopefully that makes up for it. Anyway, thoughts on Matt's first year at Wammy's? This chapter in particular? Guesses for the future? (That last question can apply to older Matt as well.) I really like engaging readers about my work, so if you ask a question or post a thoughtful response, I'll likely get back to you. Please leave a review, even if it's a quick "please continue writing this story because/but I (don't) like x about it." Thanks for reading, and following Matt's story._

_~anja-chan  
_


	11. Chapter 11

Letters

11

-M-

**August 4, 2007**

The research with Mello had reached a dead end. The redhead was aware that there was a limit to information available on Mihael Keehl. He'd exhausted every resource now except one and he still didn't have any clear leads.

Somehow, Matt had known that he wouldn't have found what he was looking for anywhere else. He'd tried to bury the small voice that had always been clamoring for attention, insinuating that he'd have to go back. In vain, Matt had tried to ignore the dark whisper, and instead rely on information the world could offer. But he couldn't do that anymore.

The problem with returning to Wammy's House was that he would legally be under Roger's thumb until his eighteenth birthday and that was still six months away. Being a runaway, the police would be more than willing to help the orphanage keep Matt locked away. That is, if Roger didn't do it himself or send Matt off to the Youth Offending Team.

Matt wasn't worried about the interview process the YOT would do; running circles around the heads of the interviewer would be like child's play. It was the fingerprinting and mug-shot that terrified him. As one of L's protégés, the idea of having his identity locked down and exposed was horrific. It would be more or less the end of "Matt" as he had become. It would kill whatever goals of detecting he wanted to accomplish, if it didn't kill him right away. Records of one's name and face were dangerous companions in this day and age.

It was frustrating, suddenly and completely. He felt like raging around his paid room like he had done as a kid, but knew it wouldn't help him get anywhere. Six months was a long time. Matt grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it fluidly. He needed the taste and release from tension as soon as possible. His first drag was long and powerful, and Matt sucked in the fumes like a diver coming up for air.

Matt's shoulders gently relaxed as his mind softened to the idea of a long wait. Six months. It was a long time, but...

...but it meant Matt had six months to plan his reunion with the place that had screwed up his life. He'd wait until after his birthday.

After all, he's always heard revenge was a dish best served cold.

-M-

"_There's a place that ends here I know_

_When they close the gates I'll cry_

_I'm so tired of never sleeping_

_The whole world wants what we're on._

_Got to get to you, the orphanage is closing in an hour."_

-M-

**July 5, 1999**

It was strange to have an afternoon off. Matt couldn't remember the last time they had been excused out of classes, but then again, it was fairly rare that one of their professors cancelled at the last minute. Also, it being a Monday, they hadn't been assigned much new homework yet.

The day outside was pretty, the sun pouring through a few puffy clouds, but the heat and brightness was annoying. He ate lunch alone in the air conditioned cafeteria, Orphan sniffing at his choice to eat inside and going out on her own. Knowing her, she probably was sitting with her cats and feeding them bits of a sandwich. It was all the better that Matt didn't go sit with her.

But what to do with the rest of his impossibly long afternoon?

The nudging thoughts that had been pressed up underneath his routine for the last few months rose up to the surface. As much as he secretly dreaded another confrontation with Dan, he didn't have any further excuses for not seeing him today. He'd been busy with schoolwork and the imposed fitness regime that it was even difficult to find time for gaming, let alone talking about the Letters.

But the idea was always there, just under the surface of this daily thoughts, bubbling up in the few minutes here and there. When sitting on the loo, he wondered if Kiss had written on the walls in the girls' lavatory. While walking alone to his room, he tried to decide where Backup was. And when he saw his fellow classmates in the mornings, he tried not to believe that one of them would die.

Matt sighed, standing up from the empty table, the room dark only in contrast to the brightness outside. He tossed his apple core into the waste bin as he walked out, squinting down at the paved walkway so he didn't have to look up at the sky, or worse, the sun. Although, he had made the walk to his room enough times that he was fairly sure he could do it with his eyes closed.

Just as a test, Matt closed them, his footsteps suddenly feeling more unsure. And even though he knew his inner ear was what controlled his balance, it was a lot more difficult to know for sure whether he was completely upright. He continued for a bit, resisting the urge to open his eyes until suddenly his left foot hit turf and he opened them suddenly to find he had only made it about 10 feet before going off course. Matt immediately felt silly and childish, so he hurried to his room, hoping no one had seen him.

Once there, Matt grabbed his question paper and steeled himself. If he didn't do it now, it would mean he'd lost all his courage and he'd never be able to convince himself to do it in the future. He'd procrastinated enough already. There were no excuses left now.

Matt locked his door behind him and took the stairs down one floor to Dan's room. He knocked, the paper folded neatly and held in one hand.

There was no response. Matt stood there, unsure of what to do. He knocked again, and then turned his head, straining his ears in case there were any soft noises he had missed. He waited, and there was still nothing.

It seemed as if Dan wasn't there today, and Matt felt half-guilty for being relieved. He'd had enough courage, so it wasn't his fault that Dan wasn't there. There was no point in leaving a note, he'd just have to come by another day and—

"Ah, my favorite lamb," said a voice from behind Matt's turned head. Matt jumped, looking guilty as he spun to find Dan's tall frame in the hallway. "Looking for me, were you?"

Matt swallowed once quickly, trying to get his adrenaline under control. "Um, yes. Yes I was. I mean, I am."

Dan glided past Matt to his door, unlocking it in practiced manner and opening it up. He held it open above Matt's head, and gestured so that the redhead entered under his raised arm.

Matt waited politely in the room for Dan to take his seat, the interview shaping up to be similar to the previous one. And indeed, Dan sat in the same pose, leaning forward so he was still a few inches taller than Matt, but more or less on the same level. His dark chocolate eyes looked expectantly at Matt, who tried not to let it bother him.

He retreated to his paper, unfolding it while he spoke so he didn't have to look Dan in the eyes the whole time. "Um, so I wrote down a few questions that I had and—"

He was interrupted by burst of laughter. "You wrote them down?" Dan looked bemused. "God, aren't you an earnest one."

Matt felt like he had committed an atrocious faux pas, but held his ground firmly. "the first one is how—"

"You'll only get one question per visit if you have them on a ridiculous paper like that."

"—how did Kiss die."

Matt stared at Dan, his brows furrowed. Fine. So, one question per visit. Good thing Matt had at least ordered them with his priority at the top.

Dan stared back, and Matt felt like all his practice with Mello's eyes was finally paying off. When he really thought about it, Dan wasn't as scary as Mello, and somehow that made facing Dan easier. He breathed evenly, willing the memory of respect back into Dan that he had demonstrated at the end of their last meeting.

"Alright, lamb," Dan replied, his expression still half-bemused. "But make sure you're sure. You only get one question."

Matt nodded without hesitation.

"I wasn't living on the floor at the time that Kiss was, but there were only three at the time. Ivan and Jiwon were the other two." Dan leaned in, looming larger as his story progressed. "She was beautiful—every guy had a crush on her, but since she was on the fourth floor not many would admit it. But she wasn't interested, of course.

"And then there was Ivan. We all knew—yeah, even us _regs_—but no one seemed to care how crazy he was. He reminded me of Backup... in the bad way. I once saw him from a window dissecting a rabbit on the back lawn. But the thing is, the rabbit was _still alive_."

Matt's breath caught in his throat, his mind frozen and unable to think forward—he didn't want to guess where the story was heading. Dan looked satisfied by his response, not smiling, but neither frowning.

"So we knew he was a bad one, but smart enough to hide it well. But even we didn't know just how bad he was.

"There are tons of stories now, but I'm fairly sure that at the time, no one knew about his thing for Kiss. It was late one night, middle of winter, when everyone heard the scream. It was the loudest, most terrifying thing that I'd heard. Blood-curdling, you know? It's not just a phrase, things like that really happen. Anyway, everyone ran out into the halls, trying to figure out who it had been. We knew it was a girl, so us boys went downstairs to the girls' dorms. Most of them were in the hallways too and no one admitted to screaming. We all idled away the time, probably a good forty-five minutes, and just before we all planned on heading back to our own rooms, someone suggested that it could have been Kiss. She was the only girl up there, so it was actually pretty easy to overlook her.

"No one really wanted to go up there because of Ivan, but strength of numbers pushed us onward. It was more like a dare, really, and someone—Ben, I think—was supposed to knock on her door. When we got to the fourth floor, it was deadly silent. We began whispering and shoved Ben forward to the K door. As he knocked, it opened.

"The scene inside was something that I never want to see again." Dan's voice was calm and for the first time, his gaze was centered inward and not on the boy before him. It lasted only moments, however, before the grim smile was back in place. "In your line of work, however, little lamb, you'll probably see it for yourself."

Matt felt small and insignificant. The world suddenly seemed like an enormous complex monster that was pulling marionette strings and Matt had suddenly realized that maybe he, too, had strings attached. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. Dan's eyes narrowed and Matt's insides squirmed as he realized Dan was actually enjoying the retelling.

"The first thing was the smell: all iron-tangy from all the blood. Kiss was in the center of the room, on her back in the middle of the floor. Her throat looked like it had been ripped it out and she had enough clothes missing that it didn't take a genius to figure out what had been done to her. Several people ran the moment the door opened, and another guy puked. They must have figured Ivan was still alive in there, because he was sitting on her bed, leaning up against the wall. But a second glance was enough to see that he had cut both wrists and bled to death already. The bed and sheets were stained almost black. Both Ivan and Kiss were dead. We stared for a long time, and then Wammy and Roger came up hurriedly and shooed us all away. We weren't supposed to talk about what we had seen, and they got counselors in to talk to everyone. Wammy encouraged everyone to see them on their own time as well. I never went, but the kids who were the worst off... well, they did and none of them even seem to remember what happened. But like I said, no one talks about it.

"Except you asked, little lamb."

Matt stood rooted to the floor. To think that Kiss had… she'd been raped and murdered by another student. There was no way Wammy would have let that happen. And yet, it had. Despite Dan's dramatic storytelling, and the way he had relished scaring Matt, the redhead knew he believed it. Why else would he see her ghost? The red splash across her shirt? The blood monster seeping towards him across the floorboards, the black and white cloth covering his eyes, the bodies of the people he loved more than all the world….

Dan was still staring at him, expecting some sort of reply. The only thing Matt could think to do was mumble a thank you before he turned tail and left the room on his own. He couldn't take it. How could that have happened? She'd been murdered and her spirit left to wander the halls, waiting for someone to notice her.

Matt was in his room and it's patient darkness almost before he realized it. His notebook was out on the bed, and he ripped off his goggles, letting them drop to the bedside table as he hunkered down over the open page. He took a pencil up and wrote. It now looked like this:

Alec

Backup

Crick – reg

Dan – reg

Excalibur

F – girl?

Grant –reg

H – girl?

Ivan – killed Kiss, suicide

Jiwon - graduated

Kiss – dead, killed by Ivan

Lawrence – BEST

Mello – 3

Near – 4

Orphan – 1

Matt – 2

He looked at the master list, trying to figure out what it all meant. On one hand, there was some kind of perfect sense—the neat row of an alphabet, not yet complete, but a work in progress. Except why was 'L' there before any of the rest? Dan had specifically said before that they were all after Lawrence, his backups in case anything went wrong… so why was he in the middle of the alphabet? Why weren't they backups for Alec? If they all had made-up names anyway.

There was something else bothering Matt about the whole thing. Why hadn't Wammy prevented Kiss's death? Ivan's suicide? After all, the man seemed to know everything that was going on in the house, and if Dan's story was accurate, Wammy had been at the house, not on one of his trips. He and Roger had closed the door to the dead bodies of extra detectives in training. Matt swallowed. If Mello broke into his room and tried to kill him, would anyone know? If he yelled loud enough, would someone come and save him? He shivered, even though the July afternoon was almost stiflingly hot.

What was he supposed to do next? He knew how Kiss had died, but that had solved nothing—her killer had died moments afterwards.

He flopped over onto his back on his comforter. As shocking as the truth was for his own future, there didn't seem to be answer as to how to stop Kiss's spirit from wandering the fourth floor on moonlit nights.

…Unless… maybe that's what Matt was supposed to do next. He wanted to argue with himself, say that he had already accomplished one heavy task today by seeing Dan. He didn't need to go ghost hunting right away. He didn't want to confront the dead, not when he'd already was having a crisis.

He took a deep breath. Kiss would wait, Matt would gather himself up into less fearful thoughts. And he would go talk to Dan again, the next chance he had.

For now, there was always his Gameboy.

Matt picked up the toy, and for some reason, he found that tears were running down his face as he turned it on. A moment later, he was gasping for air, the little lights blurring hopelessly through tears, the sounds distorted against his choked sobs. Relentlessly, he kept his hands on the controls, pressing 'start,' not admitting defeat, pretending he wasn't afraid, acting like it was a normal day, and above all, not wanting to give in to the bare loneliness of his life.

When he went to bed after hours of mindless game play, he didn't remember when he had finally stopped crying.

-M-

**July 11, 1999**

Orphan had commented on his haggard look all during the school week, but Matt was hoping it would all be over after today. It was the following Sunday after his second meeting with Dan, so he had no classes, and even if he had to stay up all night to finish up homework he didn't complete the day before, he was going to talk to Dan again. He had avoided being in the hallway alone, not wanting to accidentally run into its ghostly inhabitant, but the new information had been draining him. He was having difficulties focusing on the assignments in class, wondering how they could be so important for what Matt was struggling with. There seemed to be no reason to be working on his calculus when he was trying to solve the riddle of his own living space.

No wonder he hadn't been getting enough sleep. He kept waking up to images of Ivan (who looked remarkably like Mello's older brother) standing in his doorway, silhouetted and terrifying, like the man in the hat. In Matt's nightmares, the two were often the same being, with Kiss protectively holding Blair Rose in her arms, even though they were both corpses, blood flowing from fresh wounds.

He needed to find some way to end whatever was going on. Why did it happen? That was what he needed to know, but Dan might not know—he wasn't a Letter at the time. The only person who really _could_ know the truth was Jiwon. But who was he and where was he now? What happened when someone 'graduated?'

Matt knocked on the door, the D A N rattling a bit against the wood they were attached to.

The door opened, Dan's languid figure leaning against the frame. "I knew you'd be back."

He smiled and Matt gave a nervous smile back as he walked in. "I… need some more answers."

"Let me close the door first, lambikins," Dan mocked, before doing as he had pronounced. He claimed his seat as usual, his mood obviously chipper in a way that didn't fit the subject matter they always talked about. "Did you bring another list?"

"…No," Matt said, a little surly and more uncomfortable.

"Then you must be learning. They _do _start you lot young," he said, musing and looking somewhat patronizingly above Matt's head.

"Look, I need to know why Kiss died," Matt said.

Dan looked a little annoyed. "I already told you about that."

"No," Matt retorted, a little annoyance entering his own voice, "you told me how she died. I want to know why, and if you don't, then I want to know where Jiwon is."

Dan let out a low whistle, his voice surprisingly soft. "You sure know what you want, don't you."

Matt swallowed and nodded. Dan leaned in, his voice low.

"I don't know why Ivan killed her other than he was always a psycho. A bit like the Mello you've got on your hands—" Matt cringed slightly "—with no rhyme and reason, just brains to do violence. There were only three in that generation, so you're right to think about finding Jiwon, but… he's not at Wammy's. And he's not dead either."

Matt nodded hopefully. "What does it mean if he graduated?"

Dan laughed. "Oh yes, he was a great success. The first and only one of us to actually graduate the program. He passed, you see and became a real live detective just like all of you dream about becoming. Of course, Lawrence is always better, but Jiwon had the makings of being another like him. He made it seem like the rest of us had been worth it—a kind of, 'see, hey, it works, someone made it' thing."

Matt nodded warily, disliking Dan's use of past tense.

"All of us _failures_"—Matt noticed he said the word with incredible distaste—"heard the whisperings of his first case. And you know what he was given? A murder-suicide. A man killing his rival's girlfriend before himself."

"…Is that what happened to Kiss? Was she Jiwon's girlfriend?" Matt barely dared ask his questions, but he knew Dan was leading up to something.

"No, she wasn't. But see, that's the thing. Jiwon was always so utterly wrapped up in his own thoughts, his enormous brainpower or whatever that even though everybody knew Kiss fancied him, he was socially inept and didn't see. He ignored her. He ignored Ivan. He only did what he was told by Wammy."

"So why is the first case important?" Matt was confused now, trying to draw conclusions and similarities.

"Hang on, I'm getting there. Jiwon got to his first case and for the first time, as he got into the mindset of the case, the way you need to figure out motives and what people were like, _that's_ when he saw the similarities. That's when he realized what Kiss must have felt, what Ivan must have felt, and what he… well, what he _should_ have felt, but didn't. It drove him crazy. He's in the mental hospital on the other side of town."

The abrupt ending to the story was jolting. A mental hospital? Wammy's best and brightest wound up _there_? The Letters was suddenly a terrible story of failure, despair, murder, mental instability, and suicide.

Dan smiled at him cheerily, like a man at a fair handing out cotton candy. "You see what a bright future you have waiting for you, little lamb?"

-M-

Alec

Backup

Crick – reg

Dan – reg, but willing to talk

Excalibur

F – girl?

Grant –reg

H – girl?

Ivan – killed Kiss, suicide

Jiwon – graduated, insane after first case

Kiss – dead, killed by Ivan

Lawrence – BEST, but why?

Mello – 3

Near – 4

Orphan – 1

Matt – 2

The only part that didn't still didn't fit into the neat pattern of alphabet soup was the extra M.

Matt. The extra replacement.

But somehow, knowing what he did now, he wasn't so sure it was a bad thing.

-M-

**March 3, 2000**

The moment Orphan shouted excitedly from the hallway, Matt knew it wasn't going to be an ordinary day.

"There's a notice from Wammy! He wants us to go to the admin building and classes are cancelled _for the entire day!_"

All the marked doors on the fourth floor opened and the boys looked at Orphan incredulously.

"What about the Chinese test?" Matt asked awkwardly, momentarily blinded by the bright lights before he pulled his goggles down. He tried fixing his scraggly hair underneath the elastic band.

"Why does he want us there?" Mello asked simultaneously, his voice low and wary. He was still standing in the shadow of his door, not yet emerged.

Near simply stood and looked in awe at the fifth figure in the hallway, the open door with the gleaming L still ajar behind the man. He stretched fully upright, black lacings and silver studs of metal glinting in the morning light. Bits of black material slung almost carelessly all over his slim body.

He looked almost completely unlike the man Matt had met before. The Lawrence he had gotten his goggles from and eaten cake with so long ago. But it was certainly the same pale skin and black mop of hair underneath that ridiculous amount of skintight black clothing, leather pants, and silver jewelry. The same teenaged face with dark sleepless eyes. Was that a pierced ear? Lawrence walked to the center of the hallway, and turned to look at the smaller students around him, a playful smile on his face.

"Ah, I think it's because we are to be properly introduced today, Mello. And Matt, the Chinese test is going to be postponed until tomorrow." He held out a fingerless-gloved hand to Near and another to Orphan, both of whom crossed to him and took it without a word. "Let's be off, then. We wouldn't want Wammy getting worried."

And he grinned at his own alliteration before clomping off in biker boots, Near and Orphan tentatively walking on either side of him. They held his hands like they were afraid to squeeze too tight for fear of breaking him, despite the tough exterior that his clothing and playful attitude exuded. Like they were holding the hands of something too important to mess around with.

Matt and Mello followed behind in perfect silence, unable to comprehend what was happening. It was enough to simply walk behind their hero-figure and forget their constant rivalry. Too much was focused on the man before them.

Matt found himself worrying what the sudden meeting was for. If they were being formally introduced to Lawrence by Wammy, then it might mean they were facing some kind of challenge. Would Lawrence be choosing his own successor now? Then Matt had to make an excellent impression. He couldn't afford to lose… because then what would happen? Would his training cease? Would he get shuffled back to the lowly regs to be forgotten by the fourth floor and ostracized by everyone else? He tried not to worry about his fate, but it seemed like that was the only possibility for the meeting at this point. He'd been studying at Wammy's for almost two whole years now.

He steadied himself mentally, bracing for any impacts of words as he entered the administration building last.

Lawrence led them into an adjacent room from the entrance hall. It had a small table, with six chairs in it, one of which was occupied by Quillsh Wammy, who smiled warmly at the entering youngsters. There was a pitcher of water and glasses set neatly upon napkins for everyone.

"Now then, children," Wammy began, gesturing around him, "Please have a seat."

Everyone obeyed quietly except for the tallest one in black. "Am I still a child to you, Wammy?" he asked cheekily, sitting down at an angle so that one booted leg hung over an arm of the chair.

"You are to me, Lawrence," Wammy replied with a sigh. "And shouldn't you be trying harder to make a good impression? Please remove your feet from the furniture."

Lawrence wore an expression of perfect sullen teenager-ness. Lips slightly pursed, eyes looking off just to Wammy's right, trying to look bored and put-out at once, while his posture slumped before he twisted to sit straighter in his chair with what seemed an abnormally laborious movement.

Wammy smiled at him. "You've certainly got that down, Lawrence. You'll be fine tomorrow, I'm sure. But enough of that, we've got to get down to business, yes?"

He looked around at the rest of the Letters, meeting all of their eyes. "Mello, Near, Orphan, and Matt. This," he gestured to Lawrence, "is Lawrence."

They all nodded sincerely, and oddly it was Near who spoke, his voice soft, yet firm. "We know. We've all met him before."

"Ah, I expected that from the lot of you, but," Wammy continued, "I am not completely finished. Lawrence is currently working as a detective, the same as all of you aspire to be."

This time, Matt chimed in. "But sir, we knew _that_ as well."

Wammy smiled indulgently and shared a knowing look with Lawrence, who seemed inordinately pleased.

The old man opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by Mello. "And don't try to tell us that the rest of what you wanted to say was that he's the best bloody detective in the world. Because we already know that."

There was silence for a moment before Quillsh Wammy let out a hearty laugh.

Lawrence, on the other hand, looked thoughtful. He turned to Mello, suddenly very intent, his entire body focused on Mello's eyes. "But tell me, Mello, have you ever heard of the detective Eraldo Coil?"

Mello seemed to withdraw for a moment, doubt flickering across his face. "…N-no."

"What about Deneuve?"

Mello shook his head, his blond hair waving.

"And Kappei Yamaguchi?"

Matt enjoyed watching Mello swallow uncomfortably in Lawrence's presence as he shook his head again, his usually defiant blue eyes looking down at the table in defeat.

Lawrence suddenly leaned back and looked around the room. "Have _any_ of you heard of those detectives?"

Matt looked around to Orphan who searched his own eyes for clues, and then to Near, but didn't find any flickers of knowledge from either of them. They shook their heads and mumbled no in unison.

"Then how could you know if I'm the best?"

"Because you—" they all began simultaneously, and iin a kind of terrible harmony, all four of them finished, "…told… me."

Matt looked around at the rest of them in horror, and saw his own expression reflected in those of his classmates. They'd based all their information off of one source. How ridiculous was that? But wait, Matt suddenly realized that along with listening to the competition and piecing clues together from the other three, he had also heard its truth from Dan.

"And so did someone else," Matt finished quietly, yet hopefully into the silence.

Everyone looked at him, but none more violently than Lawrence himself. His black eyes were piercing and his features suddenly sharp and dangerous. Panicked, Matt looked to Wammy, but the older man's expression held confusion, honest worry, but somehow… a vibrant intensity?

"Matt, look at me." Lawrence's voice was a command. Matt looked. "Who else told you that?"

Matt swallowed, his eyes straying to those of his classmates and his guardian, before returning to Lawrence's face. "Um, well, I first heard things from Orphan and Mello, but…" his voice shrank as Lawrence nodded slowly without losing his locked gaze. Matt didn't want to give up his source! Not to Orphan, Mello, and Near. He took a deep breath, and then leaned in closer to Lawrence, thankful he was sitting just to Lawrence's right. The teenager moved in as well once he understood what Matt was doing, his black eyes leaving Matt's finally and tilting his head so Matt could reach his ear.

Just to be extra careful, Matt used a hand to cover his mouth from view by the others across the table. He stopped an inch from Lawrence's ear, and whispered.

"I asked Dan."

Lawrence was perfectly still for a moment, then seemed to slump a bit like a deflated balloon, leaning back. Slowly, he turned his head back to look at Matt, but his eyes were strangely filled with sorrow. Lawrence looked down and away from the question on everyone else's faces.

"Lawrence?" Wammy asked, his voice holding a bit of a waver. The man was literally sitting on the edge of his seat.

"No, it's fine, Wammy," Lawrence replied, still looking downcast.

Matt returned to his normal sitting position and breathed a slight sigh of relief.

Wammy coughed, trying to restore some air of normalcy to the room. "Well, that brings me to the next point in this conversation. Just as every detective here has a false name, we still need to act as a team to protect each other by not giving out information that can harm us."

Wammy looked at them all carefully. "I hope that none of you have spoken to anyone else about Lawrence being a high caliber detective?"

They shook their heads, even Lawrence. Wammy continued. "Good. And it is imperative that none of you do so in the slightest. It would be best if none of you mentioned him at all—just like how your training and classes are highly secretive, so is Lawrence's existence.

"This is because you are all correct. He _is_ the best detective in the world."

"But what about Eraldo Coil?" Mello asked, half sullen, half sarcastic.

"I am Eraldo Coil," Lawrence answered succinctly. "He's the second best detective."

"And Deneuve?"

"I took that name as well." Lawrence's face was impassive. "Third."

"You have all reached the point," Wammy said, cutting over the awed looks at their shared idol, "that when Lawrence is not busy working, he will teach the occasional class. Congratulations."

Lawrence looked up finally and smiled around the room. It was his strange smile, the one that felt genuine, but looked like a replica. Or maybe it was only that Matt recognized it as his true awkwardness showing through again. At this, at least, Lawrence wasn't playing a role like he was with his clothing and attitude when they arrived. Matt smiled back.

"So, there's water for all of you if you like, and you can go ahead and get to know your newest teacher a bit in an informal setting. I suppose it's okay since you are all floormates as well," Wammy said benignly. "I have some of my own work to do today, so I can't stay, so do everything that Lawrence says, alright?"

Wammy smiled and rose from his seat, walking steadily to the door and exiting.

No sooner than the door had shut when Orphan spoke. "So what's it like? I mean, really being out there, doing real detective work. Because I read Sylvia Strange, but I think there are probably a lot of inaccuracies because it's a novel and so there's a lot put in there simply for entertainment, but it's not always true."

Lawrence blinked, and shifted sideways a bit, one leg coming up to rest a foot on the edge of his chair. "Each case is different."

"Can you solve any case?" Mello asked, his voice sounding out like a challenge.

"I have never failed," Lawrence replied.

"But that doesn't mean you can solve any case," Mello answered back. "You could simply be choosing the cases that you think you can solve going into them."

"You are implying I avoid difficult cases, Mello?" Lawrence asked, his tone only barely rising into a question on the name.

Mello watched him levelly, but didn't speak. Lawrence sighed.

"It's true that I have solved every case put before me, some more neatly than others, but all have been solved to my satisfaction… which I might add is usually higher than the court systems in most countries." He paused for a moment. "But considering all probabilities, there will likely come a case that I cannot solve. I can think of many 'perfect crime' scenarios in which I would not be able to identify for certain who the criminal is, so it stands that eventually there will be a person that can think to the same level as one of them and will wish to perform the crime."

Matt blinked. "But then, couldn't you just profile the murderer by identifying the level of intelligence required?"

Lawrence smiled at him. "Yes, but it could always have been someone _more_ intelligent, or someone who learned the idea from another person, and so on. The tricky thing about dealing with criminals at my level is that they learn very quickly. Rarely do I get a case where the criminals are stupid."

"So," Orphan began, joining into the conversation, "you actually have a limited criminal base, since you really only deal with the masterminds."

"Precisely."

"What was the hardest case you ever solved?" Mello asked, changing the subject. Matt was slightly annoyed at him—it seemed like Mello was simply trying to prove that Lawrence wasn't as smart or experienced as they all believed. Which, if Matt thought about it, maybe was a good thing in a way, but Mello was going about it all wrong. Spitefully, almost.

"Probably my first one," Lawrence answered wistfully. "I was very young, and hadn't had much training." He smiled quickly at them. "Not like all of you are getting."

"But what was it?" Mello persisted.

"A murder," Lawrence said. "If I had to solve the same case now, it would be very simple really. A matter of hours, a day at most… so it really comes down to what sort of equipment one has. Most specifically, one's brain."

Orphan looked doubtful. "Are you saying that you weren't very smart?"

"Oh no," Lawrence returned, "I was plenty smart. Just untrained. I didn't know how smart I really was. Am."

Matt stifled a chuckle. "You're really saying that we don't have a clue how smart we really are either."

"Yes," Lawrence nodded, "And it amazes me just how quickly all of you are learning. _J'ai dû apprendre français pendant trois mois avant je parlerais comme un parisien, si vous le croirez_. And that was before I knew any Russian at all."

Orphan snickered a bit, trying unsuccessfully to squash it. Near sighed quietly from the corner, twisting a bit of his white hair between his fingers in his usual habit.

"So we're actually better than you," Mello said, his voice a bit quieter and less confrontational than before. He was looking at the center of the table.

"I didn't say that," Lawrence replied softly. "But it seems quite clear that you all have the _potential_ to be better than me.

"That is why you are my successors."

-M-

Even though it felt like they had talked about nothing of particular importance, Matt was exhausted. Lawrence was very kind, and answered each question, but Matt had only realized after the interview was over that all the given answers were rather cagey.

He was a great detective, that was nearly a given since it came from the trusted source of Wammy and confirmed by other unrelated sources (Dan and Matt's own classmates). He was also incredibly intelligent—Matt could tell for himself just by a conversation.

But who was he really if a whole alphabet of children were trained to be like him? He hadn't been able to ask about the Letters and about the generations of trainees before him, because of his classmates. But if there were still so many failures in the past, in fact, if Matt really thought about it, if _all_ of the former Letters had been failures, then why did they still continue the program?

Who was 'they?' Wammy, for sure. Lawrence, too. Roger was a little harder to answer. Why did these people, all so exceptionally kind to a group of smart misfits, continue a program that had been proven dangerous and unsuccessful?

Matt blinked. It wasn't like he didn't _want_ to be here, learning to be a detective. He enjoyed it, really. He was treated like an adult most of the time, and given appropriate challenges. He was quite spoiled, really, considering that he had nearly every gaming system created in the last several years and all the games he could want to go with it. He ate well, he slept well, he…

…hadn't found his family's killer, was beaten up by Mello, kept seeing the ghost of a murdered girl, felt stupid most of the time, was scared of and by Dan, and had no real friends.

Matt's head spun. That couldn't be right. Not all of it anyway—while he really did have no idea who had killed his family, Mello hadn't beaten him up for quite a long time, and neither had he seen Kiss. He had avoided sparking Mello off, and wandering hallways at night… it was just a learning curve. And Lawrence had just told them all how intelligent they were, not to mention how he couldn't really be too scared of Dan if he had been to see him several times. And friends… he had Orphan. And Lawrence counted.

Hell, even Mello and he were friends of a sort. Against the rest of the world, he and Mello were far more similar. And Matt got along with Near fine—they hardly ever spoke, but when they did, there was never anything unkind between them. It was always a friendly joking or agreement.

So his life was more or less perfect. He couldn't ask for anything, really. Maybe that's why they kept the program around. Because for Matt, it was the best life he could ask for.

Really.

* * *

_Soooo, another update over here. Yaaaay. Hope you're all enjoying the story and stuff. :)_


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